A/N: I take motivation from dark games like Dark Souls, and Elden ring. But ultimately my main motivation is from meta game like Downhill and Slay the Princess.
Either way enjoy the chapter.
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The steady murmur of customers filtered through the coffee shop, laughter, footsteps, clinking cups, the hiss of steamed milk. Beatrice and Maine sat across from each other, the morning darkness spilling between them through a window streaked with condensation.
"I see… Maine murmured, folding one leg over the other as she rested her doll-like hand beneath her chin. "How unheard of. I want to call it deception, and just say you're being tricked, but after getting your powers evaluated by Kiser, I can confirm it. Your Spirit Technique has been classified as Rank 2… yet the potential growth chart reads all the way up to Rank 0."
Her porcelain lips parted into an astonished smile. "This… this is incredible." Beatrice looked at her calmly, her violet-tinted eyes reflecting the light of the shop's chandelier. "Do you really think he is one of the Outer ones? If so… which one?"
Maine's expression turned solemn. "That, my child, I do not know. Lesser Spirits usually don't possess domains of power, that is something only Rank 0 Spirits have ever displayed."
She leaned back in her chair, studying Beatrice. It had been a week since Beatrice forged her contract with D, and ever since then, the people around her, scholars, Spirit evaluators, even the council observers, had been left in quiet awe. As of now they are keeping her existence as a secrete.
D's existence as a Spirit didn't make sense. Spirits, even the Outer ones, all adhered to the Universal Law of Representation — their power reflected an aspect of emotion, nature, or collective human belief that is Negative in nature. D, however, broke that rule entirely. He was… wrong. An anomaly among anomalies. A Spirit whose essence didn't match any known negative archetype of existence.
Then there was Pressure Control, the power she had been granted, through the Wheel of Dreams as D calls it. A gift… or perhaps a curse.
It was a terrifying ability, capable of unleashing destruction on an unimaginable scale. Just three days ago, during a field test, Beatrice accidentally blew a hole through an entire mountain when she tried to compress air into a dense sphere and release it gently. Instead, the compressed spear of air slipped from her hand and shot across the plains at hypervelocity shattering the mountain in the distance and annihilating everything living upon it. The explosion had echoed for miles.
Maine remembered standing there that day, the air vibrating, her own heartbeat stuttering. The girl had stared at her hands in disbelief, as if afraid of her own flesh. And since then… she hadn't smiled the same way.
Her technique was extraordinary, yes...immense power, immense destruction, but control was another matter. Every attempt to moderate her strength ended in disaster. A little too much focus, a little too much breath, and the result was catastrophic.
Yet there was something even stranger about her. Beatrice wasn't like the other Spirit Warriors as Maine understand it.
Normally, a Spirit Technique was dependent on its Spirit, the human acted merely as a conduit. Spirit Warriors couldn't freely draw upon that power whenever they wished; they needed their Spirit's cooperation, a ritual of balance and team work per day. Their strength came through the Spirit, not from themselves.
But Beatrice… was different.
She could use her power freely, as if the Spirit's authority had been overwritten by her own. There was no visible price or sacrifice. No energy toll, no fatigue, no drain. The only side effect was her hollow breath.
Her body, from what researchers had gathered over the past week, her body or curse carried a strange limiter. Her lungs could not properly draw in oxygen when she used her ability. It was as if the act of breathing itself became incompatible with her existence when she tapped into her power. And yet, if not for that, Beatrice could theoretically fight indefinitely.
A remarkable specimen. A miracle. A dangerous existence had be birthed that day within the confines of that makeshift altar Maine had made for her.
Still, Maine couldn't shake the question gnawing at her mind. Why would a Spirit of "Games" grant a power tied to nature to atmospheric control, compression, and destruction?
D's theme, if such a thing existed, didn't align with Beatrice her contractor at all. All Spirit user are like representation of their contract spirits.
I spirit user who can gain more power by killing in horrific ways is possible because let say their Spirit is Spirit burn from cruelty and unjust murder. The theme of power aligns perfectly as that what that spirit represent.
For that reason Maine concluded that there was something larger happening here. "Sigh, what strange spirit you got contracted with."
Maine said, as she continue to speak by saying "Tell me, young Beako." She said softly, using the nickname from Beatrice's childhood. "Are you still… entering that world when you sleep?"
Beatrice froze, her fork halfway to her mouth. For a moment, she didn't answer. Then she nodded slowly, trembling.
"Yes. But once I am inside, I become completely powerless again. My Pressure Control doesn't work there." Her voice wavered, equal parts fear and frustration. "When I asked D why, he said I am bound to the narrative. Each world he creates follows its own rules, and my powers change accordingly. In those worlds, my abilities shift to fit the story I am in. But whatever I gain there… I keep here."
Beatrice set her fork down beside her pancakes, the faint clatter drawing a few glances from nearby tables. Her coffee steamed quietly between them.
"For example… She said, her tone calm, almost too calm. Before Maine could react, Beatrice took the fork again, and drove it straight through her own hand.
Maine gasped. "Beako!" Blood spilled across the tablecloth, dripping in neat lines like crimson threads. Beatrice didn't even flinch, it was weird it was like this woman was accustomed to pain for some reason. And then she simply pulled the fork free, flexed her fingers, and before Maine's horrified eyes, the wounds began to close. The flesh knitted itself together, leaving only faint red traces where the holes had been.
Maine's porcelain hand trembled. Her voice cracked, only a single thought fill her mind, as she expressed her suprise with a question. "M-My god… what is he?" she whispered, her fear leaking through. "Creating entire worlds is one thing, but… to treat existence itself like a game?" Her hands clasped tightly before her mouth, shaking. "It is like you're not even bound by the world's logic anymore!"
Beatrice sighed, leaning back in her chair. "Yeah, it's… something, alright. But it is not as fun as you would think." Her face twisted into exhaustion, eyes shadowed by frustration. "For a whole week straight, Auntie, I've been stuck in that damned tutorial. A whole week. I swear, how the fuck do you even parry some of that shit in they're? Again, and again, I die, and die, come back go to sleep try again, and die again hehehe, it hurts,.it hurts so much, but this concept of grinding it excites, but dying is a bitch. The enemies in that world are ridiculous. And the start-up conditions? Completely unfair."
"What do you mean?" Maine asked, horrified and fascinated all at once. Beatrice dragged a hand through her hair. "Every time I enter Sunderland, I hear D's voice, the narrator of that world. Whatever he says… dictates my actions and the world itself. It is like being inside a play." Her expression darkened. "I only have control during fights or when I am forced to make choices. The rest of the time, he drives everything — the events, the cutscenes, even my movement. He calls it narrative flow."
Maine's lips parted, but no sound came. "So basically." Beatrice continued "When I am in combat or decision points, I have free will. But when the story is advancing? I am just an actor reading the lines he writes of course I can speak but it doesn't change much his words shape my reality. Every night, I start from the beginning again. D said it'll be that way until I complete the tutorial and reach something called the Fire of the Mourn." She made air quotes, muttering, "Whatever the fuck that means."
Maine sat there silently for a moment, unable to speak. The hum of the coffee shop faded around her, the sound of the world seemed to thin.
Her niece, the girl she had raised since childhood in place of her mother, was now entangled with something that defied existence itself.
And even though she smiled and cursed and joked as usual… There was something in Beatrice's eyes that looked no longer human. 'Have I... She said. 'Have I doom my niece!?'
The answer did not came, but Beatrice sighed as she got up, she looked tired, fed up even. "Anyways aunty, I can't keep Lord D waiting, if you will excuse me, I am going to pharmacy to get some sleeping pills, without it I can't sleep otherwise, my body is afraid to go back to that place, that hell... But power, power like no other cannot be acheive or earn any other way... With have a good day dearest auntie."
With that Beatrice leave a couple dollars on the table to pay for her meal, as she began to walk to the pharmacy, her eyes tired, as her soul was slowly being corrupted.
What lies ahead for dear Beatrice.
"Hahaha... Only time will tell!?" Dante said from his chair as he look at Beatrice from through his screen, from within the Administrator Void.
"Ahhh, I can't wait for our next playthrough... My sweet Beako, I desire the day you become truly lore accurate."