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Daybreak Town, a few days prior.
The new keybearer arrives in the fountain plaza, just like all the others. He’s familiar to Aced somehow, but the Foreteller can’t place that silver hair and blue eyes.
Ephemera. His Text informs him.
Element: Light.
Union: Ursus.
Keyblade: Light That Burns The Sky.
Aced frowns. It only takes a few seconds for him to flick back through his Text, to another keybearer’s file.
Eden.
Element: Light.
Union: Leopardos.
Keyblade: Light That Burns The Sky.
Two of the same keyblade should be impossible. It is impossible: The Master forged each keyblade from its wielder’s heart, ensuring that each one would be wholly unique, a manifestation of the wielder’s truest self. Is it possible the Texts are wrong? Glitched somehow?
He doesn’t have time to think about it, because Ephemera holds an envelope out towards him.
“I was given this.”
Aced frowns, taking the envelope. He carefully opens it, pulling out the card inside, a note written on it in the Master’s unmistakably messy handwriting.
This is the last one.
---
La Cite des Cloches.
Ifrit’s fist clashes against Eden’s keyblade, throwing out a wave of flame that sends him skidding back across the city’s cobblestones.
There’s a battle raging less than a mile behind him, in the wide plaza in front of the cathedral, but it’s useless. The entire city is on fire, Heartless swarming over the tops of buildings, and Eden’s reminded again of the Black Chirithy’s words: The second you arrived in this world, it was doomed. When you set foot in a world, it begins to wend its way towards destruction.
La Cite des Cloches is lost, just like Olympus Coliseum, just like Wonderland. Even Agrabah found itself in crisis just after he arrived. The methods were different, the speeds of their descent were different, but each world began a slide down into chaos the moment he travelled to them.
So the Black Chirithy is right. He’s somehow tied to the ends of worlds, like a beacon or an impact trigger. He knows he should feel a particular way about that, but the best he can muster is scientific curiosity.
Ifrit forms a sword from the flames around him, battering at Eden’s guard, pushing him backwards with each blow he rains down on his keyblade. With a growl, he pulls his Valor card from his belt, sweeping the image of a happy armoured dog across his keyblade. As it morphs into a shield, he hunches down behind it, letting it catch and disperse the force of those blows.
“Do you know how Ifrit was born?” The Black Chirithy asks, his shape barely visible in the smoke pouring off a nearby building. “He isn’t like a regular Heartless. There is no collapsed heart within him.”
Ifrit is relentless. Summoning another sword, he starts swinging each in turn, a constant barrage of fiery strikes. Eden grimaces as his feet are pushed into the ground, breaking cobblestones, heels digging into mud.
“He was formed from the darkness that pours off you. Ifrit, Odin, Shiva, Ramuh, Titan, Leviathan, Fenrir, Silph, Alexander, Carbuncle, Diabolos, Phoenix, Bahamut. Your existence alone gave rise to those thirteen Heartless,” the Black Chirithy continues. “Thirteen Seekers of Darkness. Symptoms of the sickness you bring to the worlds. You see, even when you don’t realise it, you give rise to darkness. A bright light casts a dark shadow.”
Finally, with a crash of both swords, Ifrit sends the keyblade spinning out of Eden’s hands, the transformation fading as it clatters to the ground.
Eden’s knee hits the ground. He snarls, summoning his keyblade back to his hand, bringing it up just as Ifrit brings his swords down. The force pushes Eden down, the heat scorching the earth around him.
“You create. You can’t help it,” the Black Chirithy says. Ifrit takes a step forward, straining his swords down onto Eden’s keyblade. “And you destroy, because you can’t help that either. You’re all of his worst natures.”
Ifrit takes another step forward, hunching over Eden, nearly forcing him onto his back. The heat is unbearable, burning his keffiyeh, scorching the tips of his hair. He can feel his skin starting to sizzle, the dark red burn marks turning to white crystal.
“I made a vow,” the Black Chirithy says. “This time, this time, I would stop you, stop him. You don’t get your way this time. I’m ending the -- …”
Something twinkles up above. A star? No, they’re all obscured by smoke. This is something much brighter, much closer, glimmering through the flames. A Corridor.
A shape falls like a meteor, crashing down between Eden and Ifrit, sending the Heartless reeling back as waves of white light wash over him.
Something pulses in Eden’s chest. Just once, a single spasm. A heartbeat, he realises, a moment later.
The light fades, and a figure rises to his feet in front of him, a boy with silver hair and a red keffiyeh to match Eden’s green. He swings a keyblade, identical to Eden’s own, back over his shoulder.
They’ve never met, but Eden’s sure he remembers him. He remembers his name, at least.
“Ephemera,” he murmurs.
The boy turns his head, one blue eye settling on Eden’s gold eyes, a smile tugging at his lips. “Need some help?”
The new keybearer arrives in the fountain plaza, just like all the others. He’s familiar to Aced somehow, but the Foreteller can’t place that silver hair and blue eyes.
Ephemera. His Text informs him.
Element: Light.
Union: Ursus.
Keyblade: Light That Burns The Sky.
Aced frowns. It only takes a few seconds for him to flick back through his Text, to another keybearer’s file.
Eden.
Element: Light.
Union: Leopardos.
Keyblade: Light That Burns The Sky.
Two of the same keyblade should be impossible. It is impossible: The Master forged each keyblade from its wielder’s heart, ensuring that each one would be wholly unique, a manifestation of the wielder’s truest self. Is it possible the Texts are wrong? Glitched somehow?
He doesn’t have time to think about it, because Ephemera holds an envelope out towards him.
“I was given this.”
Aced frowns, taking the envelope. He carefully opens it, pulling out the card inside, a note written on it in the Master’s unmistakably messy handwriting.
La Cite des Cloches.
Ifrit’s fist clashes against Eden’s keyblade, throwing out a wave of flame that sends him skidding back across the city’s cobblestones.
There’s a battle raging less than a mile behind him, in the wide plaza in front of the cathedral, but it’s useless. The entire city is on fire, Heartless swarming over the tops of buildings, and Eden’s reminded again of the Black Chirithy’s words: The second you arrived in this world, it was doomed. When you set foot in a world, it begins to wend its way towards destruction.
La Cite des Cloches is lost, just like Olympus Coliseum, just like Wonderland. Even Agrabah found itself in crisis just after he arrived. The methods were different, the speeds of their descent were different, but each world began a slide down into chaos the moment he travelled to them.
So the Black Chirithy is right. He’s somehow tied to the ends of worlds, like a beacon or an impact trigger. He knows he should feel a particular way about that, but the best he can muster is scientific curiosity.
Ifrit forms a sword from the flames around him, battering at Eden’s guard, pushing him backwards with each blow he rains down on his keyblade. With a growl, he pulls his Valor card from his belt, sweeping the image of a happy armoured dog across his keyblade. As it morphs into a shield, he hunches down behind it, letting it catch and disperse the force of those blows.
“Do you know how Ifrit was born?” The Black Chirithy asks, his shape barely visible in the smoke pouring off a nearby building. “He isn’t like a regular Heartless. There is no collapsed heart within him.”
Ifrit is relentless. Summoning another sword, he starts swinging each in turn, a constant barrage of fiery strikes. Eden grimaces as his feet are pushed into the ground, breaking cobblestones, heels digging into mud.
“He was formed from the darkness that pours off you. Ifrit, Odin, Shiva, Ramuh, Titan, Leviathan, Fenrir, Silph, Alexander, Carbuncle, Diabolos, Phoenix, Bahamut. Your existence alone gave rise to those thirteen Heartless,” the Black Chirithy continues. “Thirteen Seekers of Darkness. Symptoms of the sickness you bring to the worlds. You see, even when you don’t realise it, you give rise to darkness. A bright light casts a dark shadow.”
Finally, with a crash of both swords, Ifrit sends the keyblade spinning out of Eden’s hands, the transformation fading as it clatters to the ground.
Eden’s knee hits the ground. He snarls, summoning his keyblade back to his hand, bringing it up just as Ifrit brings his swords down. The force pushes Eden down, the heat scorching the earth around him.
“You create. You can’t help it,” the Black Chirithy says. Ifrit takes a step forward, straining his swords down onto Eden’s keyblade. “And you destroy, because you can’t help that either. You’re all of his worst natures.”
Ifrit takes another step forward, hunching over Eden, nearly forcing him onto his back. The heat is unbearable, burning his keffiyeh, scorching the tips of his hair. He can feel his skin starting to sizzle, the dark red burn marks turning to white crystal.
“I made a vow,” the Black Chirithy says. “This time, this time, I would stop you, stop him. You don’t get your way this time. I’m ending the -- …”
Something twinkles up above. A star? No, they’re all obscured by smoke. This is something much brighter, much closer, glimmering through the flames. A Corridor.
A shape falls like a meteor, crashing down between Eden and Ifrit, sending the Heartless reeling back as waves of white light wash over him.
Something pulses in Eden’s chest. Just once, a single spasm. A heartbeat, he realises, a moment later.
The light fades, and a figure rises to his feet in front of him, a boy with silver hair and a red keffiyeh to match Eden’s green. He swings a keyblade, identical to Eden’s own, back over his shoulder.
They’ve never met, but Eden’s sure he remembers him. He remembers his name, at least.
“Ephemera,” he murmurs.
The boy turns his head, one blue eye settling on Eden’s gold eyes, a smile tugging at his lips. “Need some help?”
