Just a few reminders as the arc reaches its final stretch:

• Max is the weapon, not the hero.

• Seth has more to reveal than anyone realizes.

• And the Mirror Apostle is no longer hiding.

All chapters are now live.
Stay close. Stay ready.

I hate the dark. Anarxis made me quite aware of the fact.

Shouts echo through the chamber, followed by the hurried shuffle of boots and robes. The eerie sensation of something crawling up my back grips me, an invisible thing skittering beneath my skin, making my fingers twitch with the urge to claw it away.

The chamber is swallowed by blackness. Dense, suffocating, alive. And then, in a single breath, a brilliant glow erupts. Lady Elsa stands at the center, the light emanating from her like a second sun. The moonstone in her hand pulses as it feeds on her spiritual energy, flaring brighter with every beat of her heart.

She turns, her gaze sharp as it locks onto the Sanctum. With a slow, deliberate motion, she extends her arm toward us, her palm open, fingers curling in a beckoning gesture. The smirk on her lips is almost amused, daring me to step forward.

Of course, she’s enjoying this. Nothing like a showdown in a cursed sanctum to get your holy adrenaline going.

I raise a brow. Really? The ‘come hither’ hand? In a death chamber? That’s bold. And where does she even hide the thing?

Still, I step forward. Because, of course, I do.

I don’t need the invitation.

My Living Scripture stirs.

Not gently. Not like something waking from a dream but like a sealed truth snapping open after centuries in silence.

The golden inscriptions beneath my skin ignite, surging upward in heated lines that pulse just beneath the surface. Then, they rise. Glyphs peel away from my arms and shoulders, lifting into the air like threads of molten light, and begin to ripple.

Not spin. Not rotate.

Ripple.

Each sacred symbol writes itself into existence as if dropped into an invisible pool, sending slow, radiant waves outward with every decree. The chamber tightens. The darkness reacts, not with fear, but with instinct, like a creature sensing the moment before the blade falls.

These aren’t just words.

They are echoes of Heaven, drawn from my very bones.

A decree is being written, not with ink, but with resonance.

Not spoken yet. But already felt.

And something in the chamber knows: the sentence has begun. And then, I see it.

The darkness isn’t just the absence of light.

It’s him, but not entirely.

His shadow moves with unnatural intent, peeling away from his feet like a severed limb learning to crawl. It stretches outward, towering and convulsing, pulsing in and out of form like ink spilled into water. Alive, but not truly living.

It isn’t him.

It’s what’s left of what clings to him. A twisted echo. A soul-shaped stain.

And now, it’s cornered.

The moment the glyphs ripple through the chamber, the man jerks sharply, involuntarily, as though a tuning fork struck the marrow of his bones. Sweat bursts along his brow. His breath stutters.

But it’s the shadow that panics.

It recoils violently, then flattens to the ground in a slithering motion, dragging itself away with no legs to run. It stretches toward the walls, toward cracks, toward voids it can no longer reach. The glyphs follow, slow and relentless, rippling outward like rings of holy fire.

The man stumbles, caught between breath and dread, limbs locking as his body fails to decide: run or kneel.

He doesn’t move like a man anymore.

He shrinks, shoulders folding in, jaw trembling, eyes wide with something deeper than fear. Meanwhile, the shadow leaks from him like blood from a wound, flinching at every pulse of the Living Scripture.

His fight snarls.

His fear screams.

And neither wins.

Because the thing that once housed his soul has broken free.