Ragnarök, Eternal Tragedy.
Chapter 102: What is and what’s not

Chapter 102: What is and what’s not

The fires were behind him now. Only flickers of light pushed through the ruined shutters. And for a moment, Amari thought the house was empty—until he felt it.

Not mana. Not movement. Something heavier.

Like guilt creeping beneath his ribs.

He turned.

The man stood still in the doorway. Average height. Gaunt frame. Wrapped in long robes stitched with scripture that shimmered faintly when the light caught them. His skin was dusky bronze, but his eyes—his eyes were silver, reflecting back everything they saw.

His presence didn’t shout.

It judged.

Name: Velin.

Unco:Sinweave — A manifestation of Moral Polarity. Velin doesn’t just observe character—he wields it. The more moral burden, guilt, or contradiction someone carries, the more control he gains over them. He can conjure threads—tangible metaphysical strands—that feed on internal conflict, wrapping around his enemies like judgment itself.

Amari’s breath hitched. His blades stayed down by his side.

Velin stepped forward, soft-voiced. "How long have you ignored your conscience, Amari?"

Amari tensed. "Don’t pretend to know me."

"I don’t have to pretend," Velin murmured. He raised one hand. Threads of pale silver unraveled from his fingertips, slithering through the air like living scripture.

"You breathe grief like it’s routine. You kill, but your hands still shake afterward. There’s rot in you. I don’t need to strike you, Amari. I just have to let you collapse under the weight you’ve been carrying since Year One."

Velin flicked his fingers and the threads shot forward. Amari leapt back, dodging across the floor, blades drawn. He spun into a slide and slashed—but the threads followed as if they knew him.

They weren’t looking for flesh.

They sought his hesitation.

The moment Amari thought of the girl—the princess they kidnapped—the thread caught his ankle.

He cursed and twisted, slicing through it just before it tightened, but another latched onto his shoulder. It pulsed cold.

Velin took another step forward. "That one’s for when you let a child’s guardian beg before you slit his throat."

Amari’s grip faltered slightly.

But he dove forward again, slicing wide with both daggers. A flurry—quick, precise.

Velin moved like fog. Graceful. Detached. The threads shielded him, hardened into wire-thin barriers that repelled Amari’s steel.

Amari vanished into shadow, coming up behind. He stabbed—this time drawing blood across Velin’s ribs.

Velin hissed softly.

Then smiled.

Silver threads erupted from his body in every direction, one wrapping around Amari’s wrist tight.

And suddenly, Amari couldn’t move his arm.

"You hesitated before that strike," Velin whispered. "And doubt is enough for me to bind."

Amari growled, wrenching his dagger arm free with pure will, the thread snapping—but not before burning a mark along his forearm.

Velin stepped back, still bleeding, and held up both hands.

The room dimmed.

And behind Amari—images formed.

Flickers of every village he’d burned. Every plea ignored. Every face that crumpled the moment before death.

Not illusions. Not magic. His own memories conjured and carved.

"This is who you are," Velin said.

"I know," Amari answered, and rushed him again.

Velin’s threads were everywhere now whispering around Amari’s limbs, binding breath, trailing through his mind like ivy made of regret.

Velin’s body hit the far pillar with a crunch, collapsing into the dust with his silver-threaded robes unraveling in silence.

Amari stood over him, chest heaving. Blood traced a clean arc across his jaw. The man’s threads had tried to bind him—not just physically, but internally. He’d made Amari see things. Relive things.

And now?

Now he wasn’t thinking.

He was feeling.

Something worse.

"Did it feel good?" Amari asked, voice low, almost a whisper. "Burying my memories in silver? Turning guilt into chains?"

Velin coughed. "You—chose all of that."

Amari’s boot came down hard on his wrist, pinning it in place.

"No. I survived it."

He knelt beside the man.

And drew the blade slow.

Not for flash.

For control.

What followed wasn’t chaos.

It was deliberate.

He carved away the thread-bound scriptures from Velin’s robe, piece by piece—burning each verse in the nearby fire so the man couldn’t hide behind scripture anymore.

He shattered Velin’s jaw with a single, unflinching strike—not to silence him, but so he couldn’t twist truth into weapons again.

When Velin tried to conjure more threads through his fingers, Amari broke each hand at the knuckle—clean, controlled, one crunch at a time. No joy. Just purpose.

"You wanted my guilt," Amari muttered, pushing Velin’s shoulder back to expose his chest. "Here. Take all of it."

He stabbed him.

But not through the heart.

Not yet.

He stared into Velin’s eyes until the silver flicker in them finally flickered out.

Then he drove the blade in fully.

And didn’t pull it back.

When he stood again, the light in the room felt colder.

The smell of scorched fabric and blood crawled over the walls like a funeral shroud.

Amari didn’t speak.

He didn’t breathe for a few seconds either.

He just looked down at what used to be Velin—

—and whispered, "You don’t get to speak for me ever again."

Then he turned.

And walked out into the fire.

...

(Johnny)

Name: Osric

Unco:Judgement Pulse — A Moral Polarity Unco that transforms righteous certainty into kinetic force. The more conviction the user feels about someone else’s "wrongness," the stronger and more accurate the punishment they can deal. Every punch, every wave of force, hits heavier the more someone "deserves" it—at least from Osric’s perspective.

The corridor’s air crackled with heat and dust. Tiles lay shattered, embers drifted like ghosts. Johnny’s grip tightened on his twin daggers as Osric advanced, red threads pulsing in measured rhythm. Neither flinched.

Osric lifted his palms. "I will weigh your soul with every strike." Johnny smirked, heel tapping. "Then let’s begin."

Johnny stomped once. Time snapped—embers halted mid-drift, Osric’s next step frozen. Johnny slid forward, blades tracing three shallow cuts across the silver threads on Osric’s chest. He crouched low, eyes narrowed. Two seconds later, time roared back. Osric staggered, robes torn, conviction crackling around him.

Osric slammed a palm into the ground. A judgment pulse erupted, tearing tiles from beneath Johnny’s feet and hurling him against the wall. Johnny’s ribs smarted, breath rasping—but he pushed up, dagger still ready.

Johnny blinked forward, shoulder first, slicing a line along Osric’s left arm as threads tried to coil around him. Osric’s eyes narrowed. He unleashed another pulse centered on Johnny’s chest—brutal, unrelenting. Johnny lurched back, knife digging into cracked stone, yet he held his ground.

He stomped again. Time froze. Johnny darted behind Osric, carving a crescent in his side, then planted a stun glyph beneath Osric’s boot. Two seconds ended. The rune flared, locking Osric’s leg—but he roared, snapping the glyph with a shuddering pulse of moral force. The blast threw Johnny into a scorched beam.

Both warriors panted, blood staining stone. Osric’s threads curled like barbs; Johnny’s blades glinted with fresh scars. Osric advanced, confidence unshaken. Johnny’s gaze sharpened.

He stomped—time halted once more. Johnny moved in a blur, striking Osric’s ribs, shoulder, then slamming a glyph onto the wall beside him. Osric’s breath caught. Johnny whipped back to position as time resumed. Osric delivered a final verdict: a focused pulse that ripped the glyph from the wall and drove Johnny to his knees.

They stood, battered and bruised, neither yielding an inch. Dust and blood coated each muscle twitch. Osric’s threads pulsed with righteous fire. Johnny’s daggers dripped crimson.