Zeph moved like lightning swallowed in wrath, his blade clashing with the dark kick Noct threw. He spun to the right, voice steady, firm, pulled from some forgotten scripture of pain.
"A child's greatest fear," he declared.
A black-blue beam exploded outward — not light, but something more ancient, like grief given shape. It seared through the chamber, bathing the walls in burning twilight. It was brighter than the sun, but darker than hope.
The Prince of Agony staggered.
Blinded.
His body stood firm, but his eyes screamed.
"What... is this burning sensation?" Noct gasped.
Zeph darted across the room, voice like thunder whispering through cracked glass.
"That's your new reality."
And then it began.
Noct's eyes bled — thick streams of deep red like melted rubies pouring from shattered windows. The agony pierced into his pupils like needles made of regret. A fire carved from unspeakable memory burned behind his sockets. His hands reached up, trembling, but it was too late.
He tried to speak, to move.
He tried to be.
But pain ruled.
Noct coughed once. Twice.
Then he said, almost reverently,"Even though this pain is unbearable, we must continue living through it."
His blade cut the air — a dark arc of hatred.
Zeph dodged again.
A mistake.
He didn't know.
He didn't see.
This was what Noct wanted.
That smile... that cursed, cold smile returned to the Prince's lips.
"The Forge of Agony in Darkness."
A sharp crack split the air like a bone snapping in God's hand.
From nothing, a blade emerged.
Long. White. Heavy. Ancient. Its surface was wrapped in black markings, each one pulsing like an echo from the abyss.
And then—SHHK.
The sword tore into Zeph's gut.
He dropped to the ground like a marionette whose strings had been burned away.
His mouth opened.
"I have experienced more painful wounds... than this..." he said, blood frothing at his lips.
Noct only chuckled.
Then he whispered the dirge of torment:"Evernight Butterflies of Agony."
And horror bloomed.
Zeph convulsed.
His body arched like lightning had kissed his spine.
Then—
From his mouth...
From his ears...
From his nose...
From his eyes...
They came.
Butterflies.
Wings soaked in crimson. Their white patterns shimmered like ancient runes, their edges sharp like glass.
They weren't gentle.
They weren't beautiful.
They tore from him, flapping out in a mad dance. His body became a gate — a cursed doorway to suffering — and they spilled through him like agony incarnate.
His screams never reached the air. His voice had drowned beneath the sound of wings.
The pain…
It wasn't just physical.
It was memory. Loss. Despair.
His mind thrashed — thoughts unraveling.
What kind of power is this?What kind of pain is this?Is today… my final day?
A shadow moved over him.
And then — the final nail:
"It looks like it is your final day," Noct said softly.