The silence after Akuma's void tainted retreat wasn't silence at all. It was the ringing aftermath of a psychic supernova. The Plaza of Screams, its jaundiced runes dimming to a bruised amber, its fleshy floor steaming with spent ichor and blood, seemed to hold its breath. Victory hung heavy and precarious, tainted by the lingering echo of the Eclipse Vision Algol, a cosmic branding iron seared onto the souls of Shiro and Kuro.

They didn't collapse. They unravelled.

Shiro hit the yielding floor on his knees, a choked gasp tearing from his throat. It wasn't just the grinding agony in his fused wrists, screaming anew after the frantic battle. This was deeper. His right hand flew to his temple, fingers digging into his sweat slicked hair as if trying to claw out the memory of molten lead poured into his neural pathways. The Plaza's chill air scraped his lungs, but it was the phantom heat of the dying star from the Harvest of Vengeance path that seared him internally. He retched, dry heaving, his vision swimming with the afterimage of Ryota vanishing in the void explosion, of Volrag's hollow eyes, of the entity, a coalescence of their hatred given form, stalking them through a desolate future with eyes like fractured stars and a hunger that chilled his marrow. "N…No..." he rasped, the word a broken thing, scraping against the raw wound in his psyche. "Not... not that..."

Beside him, Kuro didn't kneel; he folded. His corrupted arm, the sickly blue luminescence pulsing erratically, hung limp. He pressed his forehead against the cold, yielding stone of the Plaza floor, his good hand clenched into a fist so tight his knuckles cracked. The static wasn't just in his head anymore; it was a physical vibration shaking his entire frame, a dissonant counterpoint to the low thoom of Corvin's ring nearby. The invasive cold fire chewing towards his heart flared, not with its usual glacial agony, but with the absolute zero terror of the Severed Chain's psychic disruption he'd channelled during the vision. It mingled horribly with the memory of the stalking entity's predatory chill. But worse than the cold was the weight, the crushing burden of choice. The brutal clarity of Ryota and Volrag standing in fragile, sorrowful peace under a thawing sky, juxtaposed with the soul deep rot of the vengeful path. "Endless..." Kuro groaned, the sound muffled against the stone, thick with static and despair. "It... it never ends... feeds on itself..."

The physical battlefield was won. Akuma fled, Ryota grievously wounded but stabilized for now by Haruto's frantic efforts using Corvin's ward stone essence, Juro standing vigilant, Mira whispering fractured insights. But for Shiro and Kuro, a new, more insidious battlefield had opened within. The Eclipse Vision Algol wasn't just a glimpse; it was an invasive surgery performed on their souls with instruments of cosmic torment. The pain wasn't fading; it was crystallizing.

Shiro lifted his head, tears tracking through the grime and frozen blood on his face, freezing instantly into icy trails. His amber eyes, usually bright with defiance or clouded with pain, were wide with a raw, haunted vulnerability. He looked at Kuro, crumpled beside him, the corrupted arm a visible manifestation of the darkness they'd both touched, both feared. "Kuro..." His voice was a shattered whisper. "Did you... see it too? The... the thing? After... after Volrag?"

Kuro flinched as if struck. He pushed himself up onto his elbows with a grunt of effort, his storm grey eyes meeting Shiro's. The static crackled violently around his head. The fear in Shiro's eyes mirrored the terror clawing at his own insides. "Yes," he rasped, the word raw. "Born from... our hate. From Akuma's death. Feeding... on us." He shuddered, the movement sending fresh jolts of agony from his corruption. "It wasn't just... out there. It felt... inside. Like the rot... but hungrier…Sharper"

The shared admission hung in the amber gloom. It was one thing to face external monsters, Akuma, void phantoms, Ryo's cruelty. It was another to confront the monster their own rage could birth, a self perpetuating entity forged in the furnace of vengeance they'd both been tempted to stoke. The Harvest of Vengeance path wasn't a possibility; it was a prophecy of damnation.

"But... the other..." Shiro stammered, his gaze dropping to his trembling, braced hand. The phantom ice daggers in his wrist felt insignificant compared to the psychic scar tissue forming over the vision's trauma. "Ryota... alive. Volrag... not full of hate. Just... empty. Sad." The image of the quiet courtyard, the unspoken understanding between the broken Commander and the traitorous son, held a different kind of pain. Not the searing agony of the entity, but the aching, bone deep hurt of possibility bought at a terrible, personal cost. "Breaking the chain... it hurt. It left... scars." He echoed the vision's final lesson, the words feeling alien, terrifying.

Kuro followed Shiro's gaze to his own corrupted arm. The blue veins pulsed, inching higher. "Scars..." he echoed bitterly. He looked back at Shiro, his eye filled with a complex storm, pain, fear, but also a dawning, desperate resolve. "But the alternative... Shiro... that thing..." He shuddered again. "It wasn't just killing Volrag. It was... becoming it. Letting the hate win... letting it consume us." The realization was a cold knife twisting. The vengeance they craved, against Ryo, against Akuma, against the world that broke them, was a self destructive path. The entity in the vision was the literal embodiment of that truth.

Silence stretched, thick with shared horror and the weight of their impossible choice. The Plaza's faint amber pulse felt like the heartbeat of this new internal war. Shiro reached out, not with his ruined right hand, but with his left. It trembled violently, but he placed it on Kuro's forearm, just above the corrupted vambrace. The touch was grounding, a lifeline thrown across the chasm of their shared nightmare.

"It chose us," Shiro whispered, his voice gaining a sliver of strength, fuelled by the contact, by the shared burden. "The Algol vision. Not Haruto. Not Juro. Us. Because... because of Aki? Because of our mothers? Because..." He swallowed hard, the image of the backwards carved Isamu sigil flashing in his mind alongside the pyre, the hounds. "...because we have the most to lose? The most hate to feed it?"

Kuro didn't pull away. He covered Shiro's trembling hand with his own good one. His touch was cold, the fingers stiff, but the connection was electric, a circuit completing against the static in their minds. "Because we're standing on the fucking edge," Kuro stated, his voice low, gravelly, but steadier. He met Shiro's haunted gaze. "The edge of becoming just like him. Like Ryo. Letting the hurt turn us into monsters." He glanced towards where Ryota lay, pale and still under Haruto's ministrations, Juro a silent, watchful shadow. "The Severed Chain... it hurt. It left Ryota scarred. It left Volrag... hollow. But it broke it. The cycle." He looked back at Shiro, his storm grey eye holding a fierce, painful determination. "We have to break it too, Shiro. No matter how much it hurts. No matter the scars. We can't... we can't become that thing."

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The words weren't just resolve; they were a vow forged in the shared crucible of the Eclipse Vision's agony. The friendship, already tempered by shared suffering and defiance, hadn't just been tested; it had been scorched by the vision's cosmic fire. And in the scorching, a new alloy had formed, one laced with the terrifying awareness of their own potential for darkness, and a shared, ironclad commitment to reject it. The burden of the vision, the knowledge of the paths, was immense. But it wasn't a burden borne alone.

Shiro squeezed Kuro's arm, a weak gesture, but filled with profound understanding. The phantom entity's chill receded slightly, not banished, but held at bay by the fragile warmth of their connection. "We break it," Shiro echoed, the words a fragile prayer against the Plaza's dying light. "For Kaya. For Ryota. For... for us."

Kuro nodded once, a sharp, decisive movement. "Together." The static flared, then subsided to a lower hum, as if the invasive cold fire recognized a new, more potent force opposing it, the combined will to defy the future they had witnessed.

They stayed like that for a long moment, kneeling amidst the wreckage of the Plaza, hands clasped over the symbol of Kuro's physical corruption, drawing strength from each other against the psychic wasteland the Algol vision had left behind. The road ahead remained shrouded in jagged ice and poisoned secrets, haunted by the spectre of the stalking entity and the painful cost of the Severed Chain. But on this new, internal battlefield, scarred by cosmic fire and bound by shared terror and resolve, Shiro and Kuro stood together. The fight against their own darkness had just begun, but they would face it side by side, the lessons of Algol etched in pain but guiding their steps away from the abyss. The Plaza's amber light, faint as a dying ember, seemed to pulse in time with their hard won, fragile resolve.

The cramped fissure offered no true refuge, only a temporary reprieve from the Plaza's lingering stench and oppressive amber glow. Jagged obsidian walls pressed in, slick with condensation that mirrored the cold sweat on Haruto's brow. Ryota lay propped against the smoothest section, his breathing shallow and wet, bandages stark white against the dark furs soaked through with blood and ward stone essence. Juro stood guard at the fissure's narrow mouth, axes ready, his silhouette tense against the dim light filtering from the Plaza. Mira hovered near Ryota, her fractured lens casting prismatic shards on the wet stone, her visible eye darting nervously between the wounded Commander and Haruto. Shiro and Kuro sat huddled together a few feet away, their shared silence heavy with the unspoken burden of the Algol vision, their occasional glances towards Haruto filled with an understanding he couldn't fathom.

Haruto stood apart, his back to the group, facing the damp, unyielding rock. His Polaris dagger was sheathed, his posture rigid, yet a fine tremor ran through him, not from cold, but from the internal quake tearing him apart. The silence wasn't peaceful; it was the charged stillness after a detonation, filled with the ringing echo of his own silent scream: "This cycle ends today."

He hadn't killed Akuma.

He had spared the architect of his father's torment. The butcher who had narrated Takeru's flaying with such cruel, clinical relish. It makes you question whether he was human at all

The phantom scent of burnt stardust and terror filled Haruto's nostrils, the scent of the Razorwind Peaks cremation ground. The weight of the ceremonial Polaris igniter was suddenly back in his hand, impossibly heavy. He saw the white shroud on the pyre, hiding the obscenity beneath. Heard his own vow, colder than the deepest void, whispered to the mutilated wreckage: "I will find them, Father. Whoever did this. I will unmake them. Piece by piece. I swear it on the ashes of our House."

The vow was ash in his mouth now. Bitter, choking ash. He hadn't unmade Akuma. He'd let the Void Knight flee, broken but alive, carrying the knowledge of Haruto's mercy like a brand of his own failure. It wasn't regret for breaking the cycle, intellectually, he knew the Severed Chain, though he didn't know its name. It was a profound, soul crushing betrayal. A betrayal of the eighteen year old boy who had stood before his father's pyre, his world shattered, clinging to vengeance as the only anchor left. He had broken faith with the ghost of Takeru Isamu. He had failed the oath carved in frozen blood and grief.

His knuckles, pressed against the cold rock, were white. The tremor worsened. He wanted to scream. To drive his dagger into the stone until it shattered. To unleash the chaotic stellar fury that had consumed him in the Plaza and burn this feeling, this weakness, out of his core. But the icy discipline, the Architect's control, was a cage he couldn't escape, even now. It held the scream in, turning it into a silent pressure threatening to crack his ribs.

A soft scrape of boot on stone. Haruto didn't turn, but his spine stiffened further. He knew Ryota's laboured breathing, the scent of blood and fading Polaris energy that clung to him.

"You made the call, Haruto," Ryota's voice was a rough scrape, weakened but clear. He coughed, a wet, rattling sound. "The hard one. The one that was the correct. There was no accusation in the Old Star's tone. Only a weary acknowledgment, tinged with a respect that felt like salt in Haruto's wound. "Stopping the blade... takes more guts than swinging it sometimes. Especially when every instinct screams for blood."

Haruto remained rigid. Ryota's understanding was worse than condemnation. It highlighted his own perceived hypocrisy. Ryota had fought Volrag, had faced the son he loved turned traitor, and still, in the end, had chosen a path other than execution. Haruto had merely hesitated, swayed by a vision he hadn't even known hadn't seen and Corvin's cold pragmatism. He hadn't earned this absolution.

"It wasn't strength," Haruto bit out, the words sharp, brittle ice. He still faced the wall. "It was... calculation. Cold logic. Akuma broken serves Nyxara's purpose better than Akuma dead. A symbol of Ryo's fallibility." He lied forcing the words out, trying to cloak his turmoil in strategic rationale. "His terror of Ryo's retribution... it's a weapon we can potentially wield." It was true, but it felt hollow. A justification painted over the raw wound of his broken oath.

Juro shifted at the entrance, his gaze briefly meeting Haruto's rigid back. "He's still breathing," the Frostguard heir stated flatly. "But that's a problem for later. Right now, it kept us breathing. Focus on that." His pragmatism was blunt, grounding. He didn't praise the choice; he acknowledged its immediate utility.

Mira's lens flared, casting shifting patterns on the damp wall. "The paths... they frayed less when you didn't strike, Haruto," she murmured, her voice distant, strained. "The vengeance thread... it was a knot pulling everything into darkness. Cutting it... it hurt," she glanced at Shiro and Kuro, who quickly looked away, "but it opened... other possibilities. Hazy. Uncertain. But open."

Shiro met Haruto's gaze as the Architect finally turned slightly. There was no judgment in Shiro's amber eyes, only a profound, haunted empathy. Kuro gave a single, sharp nod, his storm grey eyes holding a fierce intensity that spoke of shared, unspeakable knowledge. Their silent solidarity was another weight. They understood the cost of the path not taken in a way Haruto couldn't. Their belief in his choice, born of the Algol vision they couldn't share, felt like an undeserved burden.

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