Templar's Last Stand

To My Dearest Eleanor,

If you are reading this, then the gate has fallen, and my watch is ended. Do not mourn. This is the price of our creed, a cost I have always been prepared to pay. The air here is thin and tastes of ozone. The stone beneath my feet is cold, a constant reminder of the world we protect.

From the chasm, I can hear them. It is not a sound one can describe; it is a chorus of splintering geometries, a song that unravels the mind. There are three of us left. Three lions against a tide of impossibility. We have barricaded the archway with memories and lit the brazier with our last hopes. It will have to be enough.

I only regret that I will not see the roses in our London garden bloom again. Tell them I died well. Tell them I died standing. An army of light against the dark.

Yours, forever in service,
- Richard

(Recovered from a sealed pouch, Agartha LZ. Note was cold to the touch.)

The Last Letter

A Final Accounting

My Dearest Eleanor,

If you are reading this, then the mission was a success, and I have paid the toll. Do not mourn. We are Templars; we know the price of peace, and we pay it with unflinching hearts. The gate is sealed. The music has stopped. I can no longer hear her whispers from the other side, and for that, I am grateful. It is quiet now, a silence earned by blade and blood.

I leave you my signet. Wear it not as a reminder of my absence, but as a testament to our purpose. Remember our vows, spoken in the shadow of the sword. *Lux Vult.* Light Wills It. It always has. It always will.

I feel the last of my strength failing. The world grows dim, but I see a new light dawning, the one we fought for. It is beautiful.

Yours in service, always,
—Alistair

---

*A single sheet of vellum, found tucked within a bloodstained copy of 'Meditations' in the Templar archive. The ink is smudged, as if by a tear.*

Duty's Burden, Conscience's Whisper

The Knight's Shadow

DUTY'S BURDEN, CONSCIENCE'S WHISPER

_Personal Log, Agent R. Thorne. Cycle 37, Sector 4._

Another one. Another lost soul, another anomaly contained. The reports will be clinical, efficient. "Threat neutralized. Collateral minimal." But the eyes… I see the terror in their eyes, even as the anima fades, even as their form unravels. Were they truly a threat? Or just… touched? Twisted by something we barely comprehend, then put down like a rabid dog.

The oath. The Order. Protecting humanity from what lies beyond the Veil. I repeat the words like a mantra, a shield against the creeping doubt. But the shield is thin, worn. Each time, a piece of myself goes with them. A piece of my conviction. How many shades of grey must we navigate before we become the very darkness we fight?

They say ignorance is bliss. Sometimes, I wish I could go back to not knowing. To a world where the monsters were just stories, where the shadows held no form. But the bell has rung, the sleep is over. And now, all I hear is the cacophony of a world tearing at its seams. And my part in it. The blood on my hands. Is it for the greater good? Or just… good enough? The quiet moments are the worst. When the buzzing of the world recedes, and all that's left is the whisper of conscience. And it asks, relentlessly: at what cost, Thorne? At what cost?

Last Dispatch: Agent K. Tanaka (Lost)

The Drifting Thought

Final Transmission: Agent K. Tanaka

Recovered from a data-chip fragment near the Agartha entrance, Tokyo sector, approximate time of dispatch: 2025-12-30

To whom it may concern, or to no one at all:

The buzzing has finally found its rhythm. It's no longer the chaotic static of a failing signal, but a low, resonant thrum that fills everything. I see the patterns now, in the dust motes dancing in the last sliver of sunlight, in the fractal cracks on the cave wall. It’s beautiful, in its own terrible way. The Dragon would appreciate the symmetry of it, I think. The unraveling.

I knew this was coming. The whispers growing louder, the edges of reality blurring. Our philosophy always preached adaptation, the constant flow. But some currents, they pull too hard. This one… this one is a maelstrom.

My mission? Completed. The artifact secured, its discordant hum now a counterpoint to the greater symphony. But the passage… it's closing. Or perhaps I am. The air here, it tastes of copper and ozone, and something else, something ancient and hungry. My connection to the network is fading. My hands… they feel like distant memories. Like dust already dissolving.

Don't send others. There’s nothing left to find here but the echo of a choice. The great game continues, always. And some pieces must be removed from the board, cleanly. This is my end, not a failure. Tell them I understood. Tell them the truth is always fluid. And tell them… the Buzzing is getting louder. Much, much louder. Farewell.

K. Tanaka. Agent.

Final Dispatch: Operation Janus

All Debts Paid

December 29th, 2025

To Whom It May Concern (and let's be honest, that's a very short list):

If you're reading this, then I'm already gone. Or, what's left of me isn't worth the trouble of a retrieval. Operation Janus. They sold it as a deep infiltration, a critical intelligence gathering. Truth is, they sent me to die. And I went. Because that's what we do, isn't it? The greater good. The bottom line. The endless pursuit of leverage.

I found it, by the way. What they were so desperate to hide. Not in the archives, not in encrypted files, but beneath the glossy facade of their Tokyo HQ. There's a chamber, deep below, where the numbers stop adding up. Where the shadows sing. It's not a secret they're keeping; it's a sacrifice they're making. And the currency is souls.

The air here is thick with ozone and something else, something metallic and sweet. My watch stopped hours ago. My communicator is dead, but I can still hear them. The whispers. They promised me a clean end. A quiet fade into the black. But the thing they've unleashed, the thing they're feeding… it doesn't do quiet. It consumes. And I can feel it reaching.

Tell them I saw it. Tell them the cost is too high. And tell them… I don't regret a damn thing. Not the lies, not the blood. Not even this. The game was worth the candle.

Goodnight, bright world.

Found clenched in the hand of a deceased, unnamed individual during the cleanup of a collapsed sub-level in the Orochi Tower, Tokyo. Forensics estimated time of death approximately 72 hours prior. Identification pending.

Just Another Wednesday

(An Internal Monologue)

The buzz in my head isn't the usual anima static. It's more... an echo. Of a scream, maybe. Or a choice. They call it pragmatic. Necessary. The greater good, framed in quarterly reports and projected impact ratios. I signed off on it. The data was irrefutable. Three hundred souls. To save a million. The math is simple. Elegant, even.

But the silence in the apartment now, it's not elegant. It's just... heavy. The city outside, a thousand lights blinking, each one a life humming with mundane purpose. Did they feel the ripple? The tiny void I punched in the fabric of their everyday? Probably not. That’s the point, isn’t it? The secret war. Clean. Efficient, Invisible.

My hand trembles a little as I pour another drink. Not from fear. Never fear. Maybe from a residual charge. Or just fatigue. Yeah, fatigue. It’s been a long week. Another long week. How many long weeks make a lifetime?

Sometimes, I wonder if the Templars are right. All their talk of righteousness and ancient oaths. Maybe there's a comfort in believing in something truly good, truly evil. With us... it's all shades of gray, meticulously categorized and optimized. We trade one horror for another, always with a profit margin in mind.

Is this what winning feels like? This cold, quiet ache behind the eyes? This persistent hum of justification? I look at my reflection in the dark glass of the window. Just another face in the crowd. Just another cog in the machine. Just another Wednesday.

And tomorrow, the cycle begins again. More data. More choices. More echoes.