Wallace jolted awake with a ragged inhale, the final notes of Lullaby dying into a silence that felt anything but peaceful. The flicker of lingering nightmares still clung to the corners of his vision, and for a single heartbeat, he thought the world had finally stilled.

  It hadn’t.

  From the blackness surrounding the cursed music box, reality quivered. An impossible shape began to take form—its emergence less a birth and more of a violent tear in the fabric of existence. Shadows bled into one another, coalescing into a living nightmare born of the artifact’s malevolence.

  The creature towered over the room, a writhing tangle of tendrils slithered and coiled like serpents starved for prey. Each tendril ended in a barbed tip, dripping an inky fluid that hissed upon contact with the ground. Its shape never settled, as if the beast existed in a constant state of becoming—faces, limbs, and unnamable horrors appearing and vanishing faster than the mind could comprehend.

  Beneath the churning shadows lay a distorted parody of a human figure: skin stretched gray and thin over jutting bones, limbs elongated at impossible angles. An oversized skull crowned the abomination, its hollow eye sockets devouring the faint light in the room. Where a mouth should have been, there gaped a maw of uneven, jagged teeth, parting to release a low, guttural growl that reverberated in the pit of Wallace’s stomach.

  As the monster fully bled into existence, it unleashed a shriek so unnerving that Wallace felt his skull vibrate. The sound gnawed at his mind—a siren call to any souls still ensnared by Lullaby’s fading illusion, beckoning them to surrender their last remnants of sanity.

  But no such prey remained.

  With a twitch of irritation, the nightmare’s tendrils lashed at empty air, searching for the fear it desperately craved. Finding nothing, the abomination let out a final, hollow snarl and began to recoil. Its shifting mass collapsed back into the shadows, limbs twisting in a wet, sickening slide. In seconds, it vanished—slithering back toward the music box that had birthed it.

  An uneasy hush settled, thick and suffocating. Wallace, chest heaving, felt his pulse hammering in his throat. Only moments ago, he had been lost in a torment of memories, and now a fresh horror had just grazed his reality. There was no time to catch his breath. Something worse was about to unfold, and he could sense it in the sudden stillness—like the pause before a storm.

  “Damn it—damn it, I won’t let it end like this!” Calum’s voice cut through the heavy silence, brimming with desperation that teetered on the edge of madness. He lunged for Sofia, his hand clamping around her neck with ruthless intent.

  “What are you doing?!” Sofia gasped, her eyes widening in terror as she clawed at his wrist. But her protests fell on deaf ears. From his pocket, Calum produced a syringe brimming with a thick, black fluid. Without hesitation, he drove the needle into her neck, releasing the malevolent substance into her veins.

  Within heartbeats, the injection site frothed and bubbled, dark tendrils of corruption racing beneath Sofia’s skin. Her frantic screams guttered into strangled whimpers as her body began to contort—joints twisting, muscles bulging grotesquely, a spiderweb of ice creeping across her skin. Wallace recognized the signs all too well; it was the same brand of madness he’d seen before, one that devoured a person from the inside out.

  “Please… kill me,” Sofia managed, her voice jagged with agony. “I don’t want to be a monster…”

  The words echoed in Wallace’s mind, colliding with the memory of Emma’s final plea. For an instant, he was pulled back to that harrowing day—Emma’s broken form, the dreadful responsibility of setting her free. The guilt had never left him. Now, he had to face it again.

  Sofia’s transformation accelerated, bones splintering and reshaping beneath translucent flesh. Frost filmed over her eyes, turning them a lifeless blue, while veins of ice branched outward from the needle’s puncture, threading her skin like a frozen tapestry. Glacier’s Edge, still clutched in her trembling hand, fused to her mutating arm, the blade stretching and morphing until it became a natural extension of her warped flesh. Jagged shards sprouted from her elbow and shoulder, giving her the appearance of a towering, ice-bound titan.

  Calum, finally registering the horror he had unleashed, staggered back. Fear overrode his twisted resolve, and he bolted, leaving Sofia to her ghastly fate. Alone, she roared—a guttural, raw sound that embodied anguish and unbridled hatred. Any vestige of the woman she had been was lost beneath layers of jagged ice and unchecked madness.

  Wallace’s heart hammered against his ribs, Emma’s voice still echoing in his thoughts. But he steadied himself, gripping his weapon tightly. There could be no saving Sofia. She was already gone, and in her place stood a monster born of desperation and ruin. He would not let her suffer—and he would not let her bring others to the same end.

  With grim determination, Wallace lifted his blade. There would be no running from this fight.

  Calum burst through the door, anticipating the dim corridor he knew so well. Instead, he stepped into an endless library—a vast realm that seemed to defy geometry and logic. Shelves climbed toward a vaulted ceiling he couldn’t see, each one carved from dark, glossy wood inlaid with gold filigree that caught and reflected the library’s strange, gentle light. The scent of aged parchment and spilt ink curled in the air, rich and overwhelming, like centuries of secrets compressed into a single breath.

  Dazzling butterflies flitted between the shelves, their wings iridescent and aglow with otherworldly luminescence. Each hue—crimson, emerald, sapphire—moved in its own languid dance, trailing ribbons of soft light that shimmered and vanished in their wake. For a moment, Calum almost forgot his panic, captivated by the hypnotic swirl. Then reality crashed back in, and he realized he was trapped.

  At the center of the expanse stood a massive, ornately carved desk. Its polished surface glimmered with shifting patterns that seemed to rearrange themselves whenever the butterflies’ glow passed over them. Seated behind it, calm and inscrutable, was Fate, the Bookkeeper. A gravity surrounded him, as though he were the axis around which this infinite library turned. His eyes, ancient and knowing, bore into Calum with quiet, unyielding intensity.

  Calum’s breath came quick and shallow. He glanced over his shoulder to find the door gone, replaced by more rows of towering shelves that vanished into a distant haze. The butterflies drifted closer, their radiant wings intensifying in color until he felt pinned by their shimmering circle.

  “Damn it—it’s you!” Calum spat, forcing his voice above the hush. “Let me out of here, Bookkeeper!”

  Fate’s silence pressed in like a physical weight, and Calum realized the quiet was not emptiness but a muted chorus—the soft whisper of pages turning, as though the library itself acknowledged his intrusion. Books murmured unintelligible secrets, their words meant only for the man sitting at the desk.

  “You can’t do this,” Calum snarled, the edge of hysteria creeping into his voice. “I know about the penalty of your ability!”

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  Still, Fate said nothing. Instead, he regarded Calum with an unsettling calm that hinted at inevitability—like a clock measuring seconds to a final, predestined toll. Then, at last, he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper yet resonating throughout the library.

  “To kill you, the penalty will only be to lose my memories of the scent of flowers,” Fate said, his tone as tranquil as it was chilling. A faint smile curved his lips, devoid of warmth or mercy. “In the grand scheme of things, your life is meaningless.”

  Calum’s panic flared, his eyes darting to the silent, watchful shelves and the glowing butterflies orbiting him like wraiths. The Bookkeeper merely chuckled, an echo of finality reverberating through the infinite rows of ancient tomes. And in that instant, Calum realized the true horror of this place: here, in the endless archive of all that was, is, and would be—his existence had never mattered at all.

  “As it is written, so shall it end. Your story closes here, Calum.”

  Fate’s voice rang across the endless library, each word layered with a chilling finality. Calum’s eyes widened in a fusion of fury and terror. He barely managed a ragged curse before agony consumed him—a golden spear materialized from nothing, plunging into his back with an impact that stole the breath from his lungs. Another spear followed, then another, each one hammering into his flesh with relentless precision, gilded retribution given form.

  Calum’s body convulsed under the onslaught, muscles seizing as the spears continued their merciless assault. His screams echoed off the towering shelves, every fresh wound dragging him deeper into a pit of inescapable torment. Blood seeped across the polished floor, staining the library’s silent grandeur with crimson shadows.

  Fate approached with measured, deliberate steps, the shifting light of the golden spears dancing across his impassive face. There was no sympathy in his eyes—only the cold inevitability of a judge passing sentence.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, his tone devoid of warmth. “I’ll add your entire organization to the obituary. That is the destiny of anyone who dares to harm her.” His words carried the weight of a final decree, sealing Calum’s fate with unerring certainty.

  As Fate turned and receded into the labyrinth of shelves, the spears piercing Calum’s broken form began to dissolve. One by one, they transformed into delicate golden butterflies. Their illuminated wings fluttered in soft spirals, drifting upward in a strange, beautiful requiem for the man they had just torn apart.

  Calum collapsed to the floor, body riddled with gaping wounds, blood pooling around him in a stark, spreading stain. The last vestiges of his life ebbed away beneath the hush of the library’s endless rows. Overhead, the butterflies rose higher, their glow melting into the distant recesses where ancient tomes murmured secrets to no one.

  Soon only silence remained—except for the faint rustle of pages and the soft flutter of luminous wings. And with that final flicker of golden light, the library closed on Calum’s story for good, an enduring testament to the fate awaiting any who challenged the Bookkeeper.

  Meanwhile, just beyond Wallace’s office door…

  A chilling presence announced Sofia’s horrid new form before she even stepped into view. Once human, she now staggered forward as a nightmarish distortion of her former self—pale, icy skin laced with ragged veins of frost. The Glacier’s Edge had fused seamlessly with her right arm, its once-regal blade now a jagged extension of the horror she had become. Every unnatural movement sent a fresh jolt of cold radiating outward, gnawing into the walls and floor until a fine glaze of ice began to creep across the corridor.

  With each trembling step, the temperature plummeted further. Frost crackled beneath her feet, spiderwebbing outward in a frozen mosaic. The walls groaned under the sudden onslaught of frigid air, and pale, ghostly puffs of breath escaped Wallace’s lips as he watched in grim fascination.

  “Alright, kids,” Wallace muttered, urgency sharpening his tone. “You haven’t been taught this yet, but let’s cover Frenzied Combat 101. Rule number one: kill them before they finish transforming—clearly, we missed that window. Rule number two: if you’re alone, which I basically am right now, you run.”

  Without waiting for argument, Wallace hooked an arm around Iris and Charles, hefting them both. His sudden burst of motion left no room for protest; panic had taken over, and survival was all that mattered. He bolted through the doorway into his office, the door slamming shut behind them with a resounding crash. Outside, the corrupted Sofia loomed closer, her presence an icy heartbeat against the wood.

  “What are you going to do against that thing?” Iris asked, voice trembling despite her efforts to stay calm.

  Wallace managed a faint, self-deprecating grin. “Something incredibly stupid,” he admitted. “Please, do me a favor, don’t mention it to Jonathan. He’ll definitely dock my pay.”

  All humor drained from his expression as he reached for his collar. Pulling it aside, Wallace revealed an intricate tattoo inked onto the skin above his clavicle—a darkly elegant storybook design that almost seemed to ripple in time with his pulse. The surrounding air thrummed, as though the ink itself whispered ancient secrets.

  “The Bookkeeper gave me this a while back,” Wallace said softly, his eyes clouded with a mixture of resolve and apprehension. “He said it would cost me someday… but if there’s ever a time to gamble, it’s now.”

  He took a steadying breath, then pressed a hand against the tattoo. Its outline glowed with a faint, otherworldly light. Outside, they could hear the splinter of ice as Sofia’s abominable form drew nearer.

  “Come to me,” Wallace intoned, voice slicing through the charged air. “Artifact 0-3… Book of Future Miseries!”

  At his command, the tattoo flared brighter still, a sharp contrast to the oppressive cold creeping through the walls. In that moment, Wallace realized he had no certainty of what might emerge—only that it was their last card to play against the monstrous being on the other side of the door.

  A luminous pulse spread across Wallace’s tattoo, growing to a near-blinding radiance that coalesced in his hands. When the light finally dimmed, it left behind a red book with gilded edges, ornate gold designs glimmering ominously in the shadows. Its unsettling resemblance to Iris’s own artifact sent a jolt of dread through her.

  “Wallace, don’t—this book is dangerous!” Iris pleaded, her voice shaking with fear.

  He glanced over, somber determination in his gaze. “Any deal with the Bookkeeper is dangerous, Iris. But he always provides exactly what you need…no matter the price.” The weight of his decision settled like a stone in the air.

  As though possessed by its own will, the book’s pages began to flip, each turn punctuating the silence with a disquieting rustle. Tension rippled through the room, intensifying with every page until it abruptly stopped on an illustration neither of them could read. Strange characters pulsed as if alive, carved in an archaic script that defied comprehension.

  Centered on the page, an image, angel wings ringed by thorns and sunflowers, their petals bathed in ethereal light. The beauty of the flowers clashed against the cruelty of the thorns, an emblem of both grace and suffering. Wallace took a steadying breath, placed his hand upon the page, and a surge of raw power erupted.

  A brilliant, disorienting flash overtook the room. The walls trembled, and the force of it all set Iris and Charles stumbling back. Under that intense glow, Wallace’s very essence began to shift—as though something was reaching into his core and reshaping him, cell by cell. His deep blue eyes lost their color, replaced by a glowing blood-red that cut through the shadows with an otherworldly brilliance. Exhaustion vanished from his features; the lines and battle-worn fatigue seemed to dissolve into the light, leaving behind a visage of renewed youth.

  His hair lengthened, cascading past his shoulders in thick blonde strands. Then, with a ripping sound that bordered on divine and monstrous, two magnificent wings burst from his back, each feather aglow with soft, silver luminescence. A ring of crackling energy flickered into being above his head—neither wholly light nor shadow, but an electrified balance of both.

  In his right hand, a spear emerged, slim, polished silver that gleamed with an almost sentient shimmer. A crimson flag unfurled from its tip, the fabric twisting in an invisible wind. The richness of its hue—so reminiscent of fresh blood—hinted at untold battles and sacrifices.

  Wallace stood at the center of this dazzling transformation, a figure of awe and quiet dread. The air vibrated around him, his newfound power colliding with the cold wave seeping in from Sofia’s frozen corruption. He was no longer just Wallace Valentine, worn by time and burdened by memory; now, he was something else—a warrior forged in desperation, embodying both salvation and terror.

  And he would use this power, no matter the cost, to face the looming horror and protect those he refused to abandon.