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And as Graf of Urtica, he was required to attend all of them.

How many times did he sit in the audience, watching the Witch King perish during a duet of justice, shortly before leading a standing ovation?

Statues on the streets.

Illustrations in books.

He has seen countless Witch Kings.

Without exception, a mysterious light surrounded their twisted horns, and even their voices had a strange tremor, as sinister effects were added to them.

They were quick to anger, cruel, bloodthirsty, with grotesque and exaggerated expressions under their masks.

Not one of them, not a single portrayal, matched the appearance of the man before him.

The ambitions of the masses need adornment, their desires need release, their hatred needs relief.

And you, Franz...

The larger the shadow that obscures your fate, the more your failures have to stand on.

Every one of you is happy to imagine such a Witch King, for the purposes of that attribution.

'Imagining,' you say?

The cruel decrees, the inhuman experiments, the fires of war, all the suffering you inflicted, the countless innocent lives lost, all of it... you call that imagined?

We're talking about you, Franz. You've never made the slightest effort to represent the people you now claim have died.

A sudden headache washes over him, much like the nights he was haunted by the Voice of Mundane.

On those nights, he could only grip his flute desperately. He felt as though he was dying, so he would exert all his strength to curse the man before him... until his surroundings became clear.

But the Voice of Mundane is long gone, so why does the pain still flow?

Ebenholz cannot see his own bloodshot eyes, but the layer of red webbing in his field of vision becomes increasingly heavy.

Pain stirs all memories, tearing through all emotion, as if trying to draw everything out of his head to transform into something tangible.

Nightmares. Memories. Imagination.

Look back on your rather short life.

Countless times you've cursed the name entwined with your own, that indelible mark...

Could it all have been nothing more than facing the void? Looking into the mirror?

The Witch King is dead.

By the time you were born, by the time of that night twenty-three years ago. And his death was genuine.

What meaning is there in calling a dead man your enemy?

The terrifying experiments of your childhood, the pain that's lingered throughout your life, the cold eyes and mockery of so called 'representatives' and 'servants,' the criticisms and accusations of others... Do you still dwell on these things?

Nein. You know very well that compared to what I've lost, all those are insignificant.

Correct, you don't care. You really are upholding the promise you made to him. You're prepared to walk through the long night, bearing it all.

But Ebenholz, why, after all this time, are you still in such pain?

I...

Accepting a punishment is not the same thing as finding redemption.

Why can't you forgive yourself, the man who has always been protected, to the very last?

Why can't you let go of the sacrifices they made for you?

Why do you continue to indulge in self-flagellation, unable to move forward?

Because there might yet be even more precious commitments, even greater sacrifices, even deeper regrets, and even longer suffering ahead?

You can't help but doubt. You can't help but fear.

So then, Ebenholz, who is your enemy?

But Ebenholz, if you don't move toward the light, we can never walk out of that night.

And the night itself is meaningless.

...The night itself is meaningless.

Sehr gut, Franz.

You have defeated your enemies, and broken free of the spire that was your prison.

The Witch King waves his hand and the golden melody, as if finally released, flows toward the door like so many harmless fireflies, quietly drifting in the river of history.

They pass by Ebenholz, brushing against his clothes and hair with a touch ever so gentle.

Ebenholz suddenly feels a baffling sensation. As if the Witch King... had patted him on the head.

Pfft—

Ebenholz cannot control himself, he bursts into laughter.

Ahahahahah! So, after all my tremendous efforts to storm Genesis Horn, I end up winning the praise of His Majesty the Witch King?

He laughs at the image of himself, at his own embarrassment. He laughs at the past nineteen years, realizing he has never laughed this heartily.

Even if thunderous rage were to punish him for his lapse the very next second, and headaches were to him back into the abyss, or even if he were to shatter into pieces, he wants to keep laughing.

But nothing happens.

The endless staircase, the spire of Urtica, even the Witch King, it all vanishes. Nothing remains but an empty throne.

Ebenholz stands before the throne in silence, waiting for the unreal sensation to fade away completely.

You've been watching long enough, Sankta.

In his laughter, I felt a sense of melancholy and... liberation.

The character at the center of this drama finally confronts all that he's been through, whether scripted or in life.

If he finds a new goal, he carries on steadfast.

What about you?

You were the first to enter my Pavillon, even before Fremont.

(Leithanian) The Pavillon... my palace.

Thanks to Yulia, I got a glimpse of what it looks like.

It reproduces all that Leithanien has ever taken pride in. The spires that join the millennia, the knowledge, art, and power accumulated over generations, undiminished by time.

There is nothing else like it, an immense project beyond human capability.

In fact, I speculated on it even before.

The soldier, the painter, the scholar, the tuner... I've met each of those who personally witnessed 'Der Tod des Hexenkönigs.'

That night made the deepest impression on their lives. They were entangled by it, trapped in the contradictions of their times and themselves.

Through them, I reconstructed the last melody you left in the mortal plane.

Hoarse and cacophonous, impossible to interpret through conventional music theory... This melody couldn't possibly point to a legacy to inherit, as your followers had expected.

...It was never meant for the mortal plane.

The echoes painstakingly collected by the people of Leithanien are the bricks and mortar of this palace, another form of construction material you left behind.

They would ultimately be found by others, but who could uncover their purpose?

Fame, honor, wealth... an individual, a house, a class... These shallow 'motifs' run throughout all melodies, across all lands.

The meaning of music has always been so narrow.

Sankta, unlike those foolish ministers, you come from the so-called 'holy city' and are unconcerned with Leithanien's past and future.

Nor are you a Lich. Unaware of the existence of Kargereich, you do not walk the path that Fremont does.

And so, why are you here?

Before I explain my purpose, I have a question...

At this very moment, as we stand here, are you only a strand of strings trembling in rigor mortis? A patchwork of flickering lights subjectively colored by emotion, one of the countless fragments of consciousness...?

Or are you the fully intact Witch King?

I had meant to play you...

The physical rules underpinning sound cannot be realized in Kargereich.

However, the place I stand does not acknowledge the rules of Kargereich.

The loss of sound is your own limitation, and has nothing to do with the Pavillon.

Music is your eyes, your ears, your heart... your everything.

You think you've lost all perception, yet desire is stronger. You are a dull yet interesting observer.

Arturia releases her grip on the cello and simply looks at the Witch King.

His entire life, all he has been through, his thoughts and emotions collectively resonate through the space, filling every cubic inch. This is the palace he has built for himself.

You walked in, you see what he sees.

Arturia sees what she had read in the old Lich's memories, the 'blackness.'

Infinite 'blackness,' or rather— 'chaos.'

Human understanding of this word often comes from the negative emotions associated with it—confusion, disorientation, sadness, anxiety, fear...

In reality, it normally refers to a state that is difficult to describe, or an object or concept that cannot be established.

But this is the only word that can describe the scene before Arturia.

Desolation. A land of annihilation.

What sits behind the material world, the vector of collapse.

No visible boundaries, no discernible direction. Sound, light, shape, color...

Things that do not belong in the same dimension mix, stack, and stretch. The cursed lifeforms and their environment are symbiotic, even mutual bodies.

Annihilation is the only ecology here.