As Kaito and Lyra fought a desperate, rearguard action, Haruto did something seemingly insane.
He lowered his weapons, sat cross-legged on the floor, and began to remember.
He didn't cast a spell.
He simply focused all his will on a memory, the most vibrant, chaotic, and emotionally resonant memory he possessed: the day Lyra had taught him an elven folk song in her forest, her voice blending with the chirping of crickets, the rustle of leaves, the crackle of the fire, and the beating of his own nervous, joyful heart.
He remembered the feeling of her hand in his, the taste of the forest air, the scent of pine and damp earth.
He poured this memory, not as magic, but as a pure, focused thought, directly at the Archivist.
A memory of noise, of imperfection, of beautiful, messy life.
The Archivist flinched. The wave of nothingness faltered.
For the first time, an expression crossed his translucent face—not pain, but confusion.
The memory was an anathema to his entire being, a virus in his silent utopia.
"What… is this cacophony?" the Archivist's thought-voice was laced with static.
"This… feeling?"