Phrolova

The audience drowned in the performance. Some sat frozen, others trembled, swaying like reeds in a storm. In the dark, countless eyes locked onto that lone, delicate yet powerful figure, their stares hypnotized by the rise and fall of her arms, like scattered notes lost in a feverish improvized elegy.

The presto's boiling melodies ignited the burning desires in their chests. Suppressed emotions flared. Uncontrolled. Uncontained. They choked on the music's maddening climax, dragged to the edge of their sanity alongside her. At the cliff's brink, above a yawning abyss, they hungered for the blossoms of destruction and rebirth.

Yet, just before that leap could be taken, the conductor stilled her arms under the spotlight. The music ceased with a sudden, almost cruel finality.

She stood there motionless, like a statue, chest heaving. The last tether of reason that pulled her back had snapped, dissolving into the sea of emotions where she drifted alone. Her gaze was set on the ceiling, never once lowering to meet the eyes of the audience below.

Was that the end?

Silent. Perturbed. Lost. The audience began leaving in a daze. But before they reached the door, the music returned like echoes from the past. It easily hissed back to life in an endless loop in their skulls, more captivating than when it was first heard, awakening and amplifying the madness within each one's heart. In an era of brightness, people would walk out with smiles on their faces, embracing a gilded tomorrow as they drank the crimson song. In an era of darkness, the blackened song would become the final straw, leading them to the windows above without hesitation.

She never seemed to care what color her music might paint for others. She only continued to sway her hands through the cycle of time. And those sitting in the music hall never pondered where the music would lead them. Time and time again the creator of those warm and sorrowful melodies stood on that stage, yet no one ever paused to wonder what kept her there—whether it was art, fury, or grief for a love long buried in dust.

The scarlet hall was often empty, its only occupants the Overseers' flags fluttering in the cold wind. Among them, the flag bearing the Lycoris had long since discolored, yet it clung stubbornly to its place, never falling. As most Fractsidus members would recall, the Overseers come and go like shadows, very few would choose to linger here. But she was the most elusive of them all, with the flag being the sole mark of her existence. She had abandoned everything an Overseer might claim here—no belongings in her room, no unnecessary words. She did not belong here. The detached silence made her seemingly neglectable, yet whenever the thought that she might be dispensable to Fractsidus—or Fractsidus to her—the silent Lycoris would unexpectedly emerge from the darkness. Like a sharp bloom, she would pierce the heart of the enemy, fulfill her task, and vanish once more. Nothing here seemed to be of interest to her, and few knew why she had joined at all.

There was only one place in the Fractsidus that could tether her steps. At times, she would stand on the upper levels of the laboratory, quietly observing the developments of human integration with the flesh and limbs of Tacet Discords, or the advancements of Overclocking technology. She watched the burning desires in the eyes of those who actively sought evolution, their struggles toward rebirth. Screams of success, laments of failure. As if she were seeing more than just them.

At other times, she would appear like a phantom deep into the night, holding a lamp as she browsed the latest research results. Yet she never took a single page, as if everything ended in disappointment. Those who occasionally witnessed this scene would be left puzzled, wondering what exactly she was trying to accomplish.

When life becomes infinite, what path should one take in this world? She had no answer.

The unprecedented emptiness and vastness of existence left her at a loss. In response, she chose to close her eyes and let music speak for her—untamed notes spilling out her loneliness, her sorrow, her rage, careless of when or where they fell.

The crazed genius had gained renown, yet remained as willful as ever. She outlasted every praise and insult, watching the same events and hearing the same comments repeat endlessly. Time after time, she faced loneliness, until finally she understood that seeking dependence was ultimately futile. Precious moments were often fleeting, and only those forced to stay continued to bear the pain. Gradually, her mind cleared. Then it hardened. She shut out the world, numb to all feeling. She walked alone, ignoring the crowd beneath the stage, blind to the world beyond.

She did not change her name to disguise herself, caring little about people's speculations and questionings. Anyone could perceive her physical age, but few could guess the age of her soul.

She would have wandered like a ghost without purpose forever, but what happened at that single performance offered her purpose. At her moment of realization, the unbearable time passed in an instant, as if her entire life had contracted. She desperately sought anything she had yet to comprehend, searching for any talents that would shine in the flow of time. If people believed she was their greatest hope, she would gladly satisfy their curiosity. Across countless eras, she subjected herself to experiments, enduring her own decomposition and rebirth. Pain made her feel anchored to reality, yet she could only approach the past through the gaps of pain. None of her attempts were too hard to bear, for pain would ultimately be forgotten. But why then did she feel the walls closing in? Why did her infinite path now feel like a tightening noose? Was this not the way forward? She reached out her fingers between the narrowing gaps, desperately searching for a way out.

Ancient statues were especially valuable and difficult to procure due to the unique materials and exquisite craftsmanship that made them.

Yet, the more cherished a treasure, the more likely it was to meet destruction. What seemed accidental often carried a hint of inevitability, as if the self-destructive tendencies of their owners sealed their fate.

This statue fell from the top of the cabinet by accident someday, shattering into countless pieces that scattered across the floor. The era in which it was created had long passed, and now she was the only one who remembered its original form. Determined to restore it, she would set aside time to carefully glue the pieces back together. She started from the interior, reassembling tens of thousands of pieces based on the image of her memory. It was a task that required utmost concentration, and in those moments, her empty heart found calm and fulfillment. The world achieved perfect harmony as she worked. But when she slowed her pace, the world around her seemed to accelerate. Before she realized, she had restored most of the statue. It could now function and move as it used to. But this was far from enough. The beauty of its exterior was also an inseparable part of the statue. Every adjustment, every action had to follow her will to achieve perfection from the inside out.

Victory seemed close yet distant at the same time. Every time she completed a section, another would fall under the weight of time.

Cracks would always exist.

She kept on working, putting each fallen piece back where it belonged time and again. The more anxious she became and yearned for the final result, the more the pieces seemed to scatter.

For too long she had stared at the statue, and the countless cracks on its surface began to resemble countless smiles, mocking her pursuit of perfection. They reminded her that the gap between fantasy and reality would forever exist, that she was only struggling with endless futility. For too long she had stared at the statue, that the cracks began to serve as a reminder that there was much to be done. This imperfection was already part of the statue. The cracks beyond perfection had, at some point, become the perfect gaps.

She looked up towards the sky. It was blue. But she remembered it being dark red.

She climbed over the fence on a search, as voices echoed around her, holding her back. "You had a bad dream," they said.

So it was all just a dream... Like the fleeting clouds above, her white dress drifted across the grassland towards town. The sun rose as usual, and the town repeated the same chimney smokes and laughter day after day... Day after day, the ordinariness sank into her, and so did this feeling of stagnation. Her music no longer progressed, and people's thoughts no longer adapted to change. Day after day...

How long had it been since anyone ventured beyond the edges of town? Where did the food come from? How did they manage an endless supply of daily necessities? These were the questions she pondered as she walked further into the distance.

Coming up on the town's edge, she saw a red figure standing before the hazy mist. It had waited for a long time as if anticipating her arrival.

Her intuition told her to stay away, but for some reason she reached out to place her hand in its palm, only to grasp a handful of blood.

The sky was indeed dark red.

She was but a dilapidated body with only one eye, covered in bright red flowers, unable to struggle or move. Why wasn't she dead? She gazed at the ashen sky, her hand involuntarily trying to grab the muddy red earth. Within her limited vision, her long-disappeared fingers slowly reappeared. The deaths of others cradled her rebirth, their residual Reverberations condensing in her right eye. It wasn't until she found the courage to leave the town and face reality that the "Beyond" enveloping her retreated deep into her heart. Red flowers trembled and fell, revealing new skin beneath. The echoes of laughter had not yet faded. She had indeed had a very long dream, a beautiful dream granted by the "Beyond."

But who is it to say dreams cannot become reality?

She looked up. The sky was truly blue now.

The endless stagnation and the dream-shattering mist were no more. This was a new "Beyond" she had tirelessly recreated, identical to the one they had placed in her heart.

People still called her name. And this time, she would surely embrace the real ones.

Evaluation Basis: [Resonance Assessment RA-F2005-G]

Resonator Phrolova's Awakening occurred at the time of her death, granting her the ability to tune the frequencies of her target and alter their "melodies" based on the understanding of critical frequency structuring of matters. The strength of such tuning ability is proportional to her physical condition. Latest test data indicate that under extreme Overclock conditions, while maintaining consciousness, Phrolova's tuning can be extended to a maximum of 30 times the normal range, with the longest duration record of 46 seconds. Due to the complexity of its origin, the exact timing and cause of Phrolova's Awakening cannot be defined.

Phrolova's Tacet Mark is located on her left arm. The Tacet Discord mutation following her Awakening prevents her body from aging, with the alteration in the color of her left iris being the sole physical change observed. Test results indicate that when Phrolova's body is within a healthy state, skin reconstruction and frequency reassembly take approximately 6 seconds, while internal organ restoration requires 15-18 minutes. No fatal weakness has been found as of the writing of this evaluation.

Examinations reveal a large mass of chaotic frequencies housed within Phrolova's body, estimated to be around one thousand frequencies. The exact quantity remains undetermined. Further experiments confirm that these frequencies have no negative impact on her body or Resonance Ability. Such frequencies are deemed of zero significant value and are only related to Phrolova's mental fluctuations.

Analysis of test samples has revealed a consistent, flat Rabelle's Curve followed by a sharp ascent and stabilization. Therefore, Phrolova is identified as a Mutant Resonator. Through multiple experiments, it is confirmed that her method of Awakening cannot be artificially replicated upon any other individual.

Resonator Phrolova's waveform graph displays sawtooth and needle-like fluctuations. The Time Domain pattern frequently reveals intense and chaotic activity. During testing, the Time Domain data displayed significant distortion, and the peak value remains indeterminable.

Resonant Criticality: Extremely low.

Resonator Phrolova's frequency displays extremely low stability. It is noted that she has a documented history of Overclocking.

However, she has consistently demonstrated control of her Overclocking, indicating a potential to explore methods of stabilizing and prolonging Overclock states of ordinary Resonators by leveraging this mental stability.