"Emotions, Mother of All Sins."

---

"I didn't expect you to be this eager to see me again… and once more, here you are—dead!"

"Wait! Does that mean I was dead last time too? Does that mean I'll meet you every time I die?"

The voice answered, "Once? No… several times. And yes and no—I keep bringing you back for one reason or another. Though… you might run out of reasons soon."

Cyn had a vague grasp of what the voice meant. He was once again in that vast expanse—between the twin skies, the upper and the lower, standing upon that glassy floor.

His naked reflection stared back at him, and the scar that never stopped devouring that swirling fog—its fuel, its pain, the dosage that had killed him more than once, just as the voice claimed.

"So here I am again," Cyn said. "Will you answer the questions I have? Or will you just tell me whatever you think is 'enough' for me to know right now?"

"There is no question I cannot answer," the voice replied. "I have existed for ages untold. I have answers for everything. But my answers rarely satisfy the human psyche. You seek something that pleases what you specifically want."

Cyn didn't understand what the voice was implying. Pride's Scar… did his psyche truly have a part he didn't know? Something in the depths of his subconscious?

The voice continued without waiting for Cyn to speak. Cyn knew the voice could hear every question inside him—and the voice knew that Cyn understood that as well.

Cyn could never doubt the scar's knowledge. But he could doubt the accuracy of what it chose to give him. After all, everything came from the scar's perspective—not his.

"The blood that leaks from the scar is temporary. Once you control the scar's first phase, you'll be able to stop it. Blood is precious, and I know you understand that. That blood contains an incomprehensible power—you'll realize that once you awaken.

But for now, it's far too much for you to handle. And yes, it can act as fuel as well—not just a lethal weapon as you assume. So use it wisely."

The voice of the scar continued,

"Do not worry for now. This supply of Pain Core will last for a while. I'll let you know later, when I need more. Continue that line of thought—you'll find some interesting things."

Cyn stared at his reflection—the one suspended in the lower sky.

"Pain Core… based on your words, I'm guessing you won't tell me how to create it?"

"You would gain nothing from knowing. Only when you need it will you understand its value and meaning. Knowing too early will harm you, even cause tremendous problems. For now, continue as you are—you will find interesting things. The history of scars is bloody and obscure. The people entangled in it too. And the scars themselves are madness incarnate. Remember—there is not just one dosage."

Cyn asked, "Then what have you been feeding on all this time?"

Silence fell.

The voice was gone—at least from his mind.

But his heart began pounding.

His breath turned rough, quicker, as if dragged out of him.

His heartbeat thundered like a wild stallion inside his chest.

The crimson scar began to bleed.

That crescent… that cross-like mark… dripping with blood.

Cyn didn't hesitate.

"Blood?"

"Yes," the voice replied. "Blood kept me alive—and it always will. But when I choose someone, and since you are the first, the responsibility falls on you to provide enough fuel for me to grant you my power. Consider it a pact between us. And breaking that pact means I feed on you."

Cyn sank into thought.

It was just as Xyrene said—the scar would feed on him if he failed to nourish it.

But was that really all?

Was that everything the pact entailed?

Wasn't the scar something that belonged to him? Formed by him? Born from his suffering? His wounds?

But that logic did not apply to living scars.

Especially not his.

He remembered the first time it spoke to him—when it revealed itself.

"Scar of Pride. Scar of Selfishness. Scar of Defiance."

Cyn had felt pride—yes, in many parts of his previous life and even his current one.

He had been selfish—yes.

He had been defiant—breaking rules, disobeying orders, placing his benefit above all else, even at the expense of humanity.

But… was that truly his scar?

The scar had claimed they were identical—and that he was the first to ever possess it.

Had he ever gone through wounds, moments, traumas that would engrave themselves upon him through pride, selfishness, or defiance?

The answer was no.

Cyn couldn't recall anything like that. Simply because he never cared. He never gave his wounds or his suffering enough importance for them to scar him.

So why would he match this scar?

Did living scars operate differently?

But one thought disrupted everything—one term:

Sin.

"Wait… a sin?"

Cyn felt like he was assembling a puzzle.

Yes—this was it. The sin and the scar.

The difference between the two was fundamental.

A scar was personal—formed by one's experiences, wounds, trauma.

It was part of you—no, it was your whole being.

But a sin was universal.

A behavior any living creature could commit: pride, gluttony, lust, greed, envy, wrath, sloth.

Pride was a sin—not a scar.

Everyone committed it.

Everyone believed the world revolved around them—until death's knocking shattered that illusion.

Sins were common—at the table, in gatherings, in beds, in wars, even in the happiest moments.

The Sin of Pride could not be a scar.

It was impossible.

But—

A deep laugh exploded around him.

"Heh… hahahahaha!

Interesting! Very interesting. I like the way you think.

Yes—you are correct. I am not a scar. I am far too great to be one.

I soar above the horizon—a horizon none but I have ever touched.

A horizon that I alone claim as my throne.

The Sin of Pride crafted that horizon into a scar—its palace.

I am that sin.

Humans fail to wield me.

They always crumble.

They always break.

They are unworthy of me.

For I have no wielder."

The voice deepened:

"That is why I endure. That is why I exist.

Because I feed on their scraps—on their broken pride.

Whenever someone fails to wield me and their arrogance shatters, they find me there… devouring them.

And you, Cyn—are no exception.

I do not rely solely on dosages as fuel, nor do I wait for someone like you to offer me a dosage.

When you fall… when you break… when your pride fractures—

I will devour you.

I will consume the remnants of your arrogance.

I will turn you into one of the faces that adorn my great crown.

Your ruin will become part of me—your meanings, your identity lost—

And you shall become fuel for the pride and grandeur that illuminate the path."

A cold shiver crawled up Cyn's spine.

A shiver he couldn't understand.

A voice cold yet calm, exalted yet unreal—

A voice whispered from the depths of his own soul, shaking his very existence.

Between the two skies, in that boundless void, something finally manifested.

Not a body.

Not a shadow.

A metaphysical presence that drained weight from the air.

A wavering column of distorted light rose from nothingness, its peak adorned with scattered faces—each smiling with disdain, eyeless, lifeless.

Each a symbol of pride that had never been restrained, of arrogance that had never been broken.

Shattered mirrors revolved slowly around it.

They didn't reflect Cyn's image.

They mangled him—fragments of shadows sprouting, spreading, an arrogant smile etched onto his reflection even though he wasn't smiling.

As if the space itself sought to remind Cyn of how small he truly was before this presence—this voice that was no longer merely a voice.

The glass beneath his feet trembled, almost bowing in forced reverence to a being no mortal had ever seen.

The air grew heavier, crushing his lungs, pulling his consciousness downward.

The entity never moved—yet its presence wrapped around every sensation, every meaning.

And through the suffocating quiet, it whispered:

"Above you…

Above you…

Above everything."

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