The impact of the fall made no sound at all.
Éon didn't feel his body hit anything — he only sank, as if he had passed through the floor itself and plunged into a dark valley with no direction, no weight, no time.
The darkness wasn't complete.
It pulsed.
Like air between heartbeats.
Like the breath before panic.
And there, suspended in nothing, Éon realized the real horror:
He could see.
See from two places at once.
In the subconscious — the void expanding around him.
In the real world — short flashes, like shattered windows:
His body spinning.
The blade cutting the air.
Hot blood splattering.
Creatures falling one after another.
Without his decision.
Without his thought.
The body fought on its own.
And he only watched.
A vertigo pulled him deeper.
And then the voice came again — this time clear, close, irritated:
"Enough."
The darkness trembled.
And someone appeared in the void.
Not walking.
But emerging as if he had always been there, like a forgotten reflection.
Éreon.
But not Éreon of the physical world: this was the Éreon within — sharper than flesh, heavier than memory, more cutting than any thought.
His violet gaze burned as if it crossed the entire abyss.
Éon tried to breathe.
He couldn't.
He tried to speak.
Nothing came.
Only the weight of the void drowning everything.
Éreon stepped forward — and the abyss recoiled as if afraid.
"You went too deep."
His words sounded dry, almost rough.
"I told you this would happen."
Éon finally managed a sound, weak, scraped:
"The… body… is…"
Éreon cut him off with a single look.
"I know. I'm watching."
His tone was cold.
Irritated.
But beneath it… furious with concern.
"You're watching the body fight alone. This is the edge before you fall."
Éon tried to understand the sensation tearing his mind — like being pulled from two sides:
Above: his body in the real world, dancing, cutting, surviving.
Below: the Abyss calling, opening, ready to swallow what remained.
"No… I'm not… getting back—"
Éreon gripped his shoulder.
The touch wasn't physical.
It was an anchor.
"Don't try to climb alone."
His voice dropped.
Lower.
Controlled.
"The Abyss pulls you because you're thinking. Because you're trying to understand."
Éreon's eyes narrowed.
"So stop."
The void around them shuddered.
As if the command itself carried weight.
Éon clenched his teeth.
"I can't… stop…"
Éreon sighed — short, irritated, like someone carrying the world twice in the same day.
"Of course you can."
The tone shifted — no longer scolding, but older, intimate.
"You trained with me. Grew with me. Fell with me."
He brought his face close to his brother's, steady, direct.
"Listen to me, Éon."
The void froze.
Not even a vibration.
"If you're lost… I'm lost too."
Éon's heart tightened.
As if the Abyss itself made room for that sentence to enter.
Éreon continued:
"So give me your hand."
He extended his own — steady, unshakable, as if even the abyss couldn't break it.
"And return."
The darkness breathed.
The creatures — up above — charged at his body.
Éon saw through both windows at once:
In the real world — his body nearly breathless, cutting on instinct alone.
In the subconscious — the Abyss ready to claim the rest.
Éreon's hand remained there.
Waiting.
Firm.
Alive.
"Éon."
His voice softened just barely.
"Look at me. Not at the Abyss."
One step closer.
"Not at the fear."
Another.
"At me."
When Éon finally raised his hand to take Éreon's—
The Abyss roared.
A sound not from outside.
But from within Éon himself.
And this time… the roar had words.
An ancient voice, deep, dragged, made of stone crushing bone, spoke from the pit of the darkness:
"He will not leave this place."
The void quaked as if torn by something deeper than itself.
The voice continued, now whispering like an endless cave breathing:
"He is mine. He fell… and all that falls… belongs to me."
Éon felt something seize his ankles — not hands, not claws, but weight. As if the concept of depth itself was pulling him down.
Éreon's hand clamped around his wrist in the same instant.
A shock.
Like breathing after hours without air.
Éreon growled low, answering the entity — not the brother:
"Release him, Tartaros."
The darkness vibrated.
A dry laugh — like rock grinding rock — echoed:
Then the voice changed.
Took shape.
Intention.
Memory.
"Ahhh… Éreon."
The way it spoke his name was an ancient mockery.
"You left this behind when you renounced Érebo. Do not meddle in Abyssal matters, child."
Éon felt the pull grow stronger — like the bottom of nothing smiling at him.
Éreon didn't move.
Didn't blink.
He only lifted his chin, calm in that dangerous, old, surgical way.
"We stood together for centuries, Tártaro."
His voice carried that soft and lethal tone that dismantles kingdoms.
"But I'll admit… this is the first time you've moved so quickly."
The Abyss convulsed.
Tártaro roared — a quake trapped in Éon's chest.
"He fell. Therefore, he is mine."
Éreon replied before the vibration faded:
"He and I share a soul-link."
His violet eyes blazed brighter.
"And you know what that means."
Tártaro laughed — not sound, but fracture, as if the world cracked inward.
Then the voice rose, deep, ancient, as impersonal as colliding ages:
"I know. It means you've accepted what you are… hunt-dog."
The darkness moved like a restrained seaquake.
"Like the fool Érebo, dragging chains he refuses to see."
A cruel pause.
"Soul-link… nothing but a collar disguised."
Tártaro continued:
"If you try to protect him… you will die with him."
Éreon smiled.
Not joy.
But the kind that precedes a chosen disaster.
"If you want his body…"
One step.
The Abyss folded around his spirit.
"…then you'll have to go through me."
Silence.
Deep.
Wide.
Ancient.
Then Éreon finished — now in a soft whisper, sweet and poisonous:
"And remember, old Friend… the same Chaos that holds the balance — the one even gods fear — is exactly what I wield."
He tilted his head:
"The moment he falls…"
A click of the tongue, light.
"…is the moment I drag you with him."
The abyss snarled — not sound, but distortion, space twisting as if ripped inside out, cosmic flesh overturned.
The darkness laughed — no mouth, no form, only malignant vibration.
Tártaro' voice cracked through the world:
"Then try."
"Sixteen centuries ago you were something else. Now? A demigod in an incomplete shell. Fragile. Breakable. A shard of what you were."
Éreon remained still.
He looked at the abyss like one watches a narrow river try to flood.
"I have strength enough to deal with you. Enough to end this when necessary."
Tártaro tremored like a quake beneath creation's skin.
"You haven't changed. Still wearing that mask of strength to hide the collapse inside. Repeating Érebo's role… trying to hold what's doomed."
The echo slithered along the edge of infinity like a living chain.
"The instant his soul falters… I take it. Not even you will stop me."
Éreon lowered his chin a millimeter — precise, calculated, inevitable.
When he spoke, his voice wasn't loud.
It was final.
"Then do your worst."
A beat.
"But until then… stay out of our path."
Then his eyes ignited — not just violet, but deep, liquid, like a compressed cosmos inside the pupils.
The change began in the arms.
Slow.
Precise.
Almost silent.
Purple filaments surfaced beneath skin, winding like divine circuitry, writing and rewriting living symbols in spirals.
But something else pushed through — larger shapes, curved shadows and ancient light pressing under flesh, as if his true silhouette fought to emerge.
Éreon lifted his hand.
It wasn't magic.
It was decree.
And the void obeyed.
Shadows retreated in all directions at once like a tide ripped away, leaving a perfect circle around Éon — not created, but revealed, as if always waiting for Éreon to awaken it.
Space inside the domain steadied.
Firm.
Unviolated.
A place where Tártaro could not enter without being torn apart.
The Abyss writhed.
Not in pain — but in recognition.
Tártaro felt it.
Felt something forgotten, something that never should have returned, breathing before him.
And he recoiled.
Not in movement.
In essence.
Tiny.
Unwilling.
Fear.
Memory.
Dread in a mask.
Éreon opened his fingers slowly — a simple gesture, almost lazy — and the domain shone in answer, runes along its edge flaring alive as though greeting an old heir.
And when he spoke, it didn't sound like threat.
It sounded like law:
"Here… you do not touch him."
Before the domain fully sealed, Tártaro' voice hissed along the edges of nothing, sharp and ancient:
"Each step he takes… will drag him closer to me."
"And when the thread holding him breaks… you will fall with him."
Éreon did not answer.
The Abyss shuddered and, for a moment, faded.
Absolute silence.
Éon felt the presence withdraw — not defeated, only delayed.
Éreon spoke unhurriedly, with that quiet sharper than a scream:
"He almost reached you. But he won't try again for some time."
Éon turned, confused, mind still trembling.
"How are you… here?"
Éreon raised his glowing violet eyes.
His tone was simple. Firm. Irrefutable:
"We are linked. If one falls… the other falls. Did you forget?"
Éon swallowed — remembering and not remembering at once.
Éreon stepped forward, and the "floor" of the void rippled like water under his feet.
"You still have something to do. Go. Now."
Before Éon could answer, Éreon placed his hand on his forehead — light, yet weighted like decree.
Reality shattered like glass.
Éon's body was hurled backward as if thrown through a dark lake.
The surface closed over his head, wave after wave dragging him toward light.
A crack.
Air.
It tore into Éon's lungs like a cold blade.
He opened his eyes.
The world was still — holding its breath with him.
Creature corpses lay scattered everywhere — not fallen: torn, fractured, broken in impossible angles.
Internal structures exposed like grotesque sculptures.
The ground still vibrated with echoes of power he didn't remember releasing.
Blood evaporated into dark smoke.
Shadows writhed where he had been.
Éon blinked, disoriented, hands trembling slightly — not with fear, but with something deeper, more primal.
For a moment, a strange weight crawled down his spine — fast, dry, gone before he understood.
He slowly closed his hand, feeling warm skin, racing pulse… and nothing else.
Only silence.