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Ray's perspective:-
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Unlike ordinary metahumans, who awaken their abilities through mutation, uncategorised metahumans—those who gain their powers from beings of higher dimensions—undergo something far stranger.
At the time of their metamorphosis, their consciousness is drawn into the domain of their benefactor.
The first visit is always the same: a shapeless void, a blank reflection of an unformed bond. But over time, as both connection and understanding deepen, the realm begins to change—molding itself to the metahuman's perception of that higher being, just as the being's form adjusts to theirs.
Mother's realm had long since transformed from emptiness into something breathtaking.
It stretched before us as a vast, radiant garden, where flowers of unearthly colors swayed under twin suns, and small, unmutated animals roamed freely across fields of emerald grass.
From the ancient trees hung wooden swings, their ropes glimmering faintly like woven threads of starlight. Moriarty and I sat upon them, our laughter echoing through the still air as Mother's enormous, serpentine tail gently pushed us in rhythm—her movements patient, her presence comforting.
Since this was our B-rank metamorphosis, our vessel had finally become strong enough to survive without our souls inhabiting it for a time without being at the risk of decay.
"Shouldn't the two of you return by now?" Mother's voice, smooth yet commanding, resonated like a melody across the garden. She lowered her colossal head between us, her scaled cheek brushing my shoulder. "It seems they're struggling quite a bit with that demon."
"It's fine," Moriarty replied with his usual smirk, tilting his head back to meet her gaze. "I'm sure they can manage for a while longer. Besides, it's not every day we get to spend time with you, Mother. How could we call ourselves your sons if we didn't?"
I nodded silently, the corners of my mouth softening as her laughter rippled through the realm—warm and ancient, like the sound of the wind echoing through the corners of eternity.
"It's good that both of you think that way," Mother said gently, her voice echoing across the garden like a warm tide. "However, leaving your vessels unattended while a voidspawn lingers nearby is dangerous. Let us end the metamorphosis here."
The world began to shimmer.
We felt it first as a pull—soft at first, then relentless—as if the fabric of the realm itself was drawing us back home. Colors bled into darkness, the garden dissolving into drifting motes of light.
In the next moment, we materialized within our mind realm—our inner sanctuary. The familiar scent of aged paper and candle wax greeted us. Towering shelves of ancient tomes on a wooden floor, and at its very center…
"Goodbye, my sons."
Mother's voice echoed one last time as a gentle wind swept across the library. Where her presence once stood, a small sapling now grew—a delicate thing with a trunk of pure white and leaves that glimmered like cut emeralds. Its roots intertwined with the floorboards, pulsing faintly with life.
"So that's what a Soul Sapling looks like," I murmured, crouching beside it, eyes wide with curiosity. "Always wondered how they manage to grow anywhere. You think we could take a few branches and run some experiments on them?"
Moriarty, standing beside me with arms crossed, raised a brow. "Do what exactly? Fuse it with Soul Circuitry?"
"I mean… if we could reduce the dependency on Life Energy—"
"Dude, no." Moriarty cut me off with a sigh. "That's a waste of resources. It's better to produce more B-ranks in Eden first before burning through rare materials."
I frowned. "Yeah, but think about it. To reach B-rank, a person has to implant a branch of a Soul Tree inside their mind realm and gather enough essence to shatter the restraints on their soul, right?" I glanced up at him, eyes gleaming with an idea. "But what if—just what if—you used that branch on your vessel along with Soul Circuitry? You see it, right? It's worth a try."
Moriarty stared at me blankly for several seconds—expression unreadable. Then, finally, he exhaled.
"…I'm going to go help them out," he said flatly, turning toward the exit. "Do what you want."
As Moriarty left the mind realm to take control of the vessel, I sank down beside the Soul Sapling, lying on the floor.
"It's tough... pioneering a path," I murmured, exhaling a tired laugh as I let my vision slip into the vessel's eyes—eyes that had just reawakened from their long slumber.
The emerald cocoon cracked open with a sound like splitting crystal, shards of green light scattering through the mist. From within, the vessel's gaze—those deep, liquid eyes—rose toward the heavens where the voidspawn waited.
And there it was.
The tentacles that writhed from the tear in the sky paused—if such a thing could be said to pause. For an instant, they seemed to remember what motion meant, and then forget again, shuddering as though the very act of existing was an unbearable burden.
Each appendage was a grotesque impossibility, cords of glistening flesh stitched together with veins of shadow and threads of light that bled backward into themselves. Their surfaces pulsed with bubbles of translucent tissue that burst silently, releasing whispers instead of air. Some coiled like serpents, others unfurled like flowers made of meat and memory.
Where a drop of that viscous ink fell, it didn't land—it hung suspended mid-air, trembling, defying gravity, forbidden to touch the earth.
Even the air itself recoiled. The sulfurous stench, thick with ink and burnt metal, dissolved into nothingness. Sound faded too, as if reality was holding its breath.
"Reinhardt, close the portal," Moriarty commanded, stepping out from the shattered cocoon. His chainsaw saber hummed in his right hand, the weapon's teeth chattering softly like something alive; his handgun gleamed cold in the other.
Reinhardt turned toward him with a faint, disbelieving smile—a fragile fragment of relief in the silence that followed.
"Even a flesh born from thought is still flesh that can decay," Moriarty murmured, his tone calm—almost amused—as he lunged toward one of the tentacles that whipped down to seize him the moment he drew close.
The air trembled as his chainsaw saber met the appendage. The instant the blade touched its surface, the tentacle froze mid-lash—its undulating motion halted like a frame of broken film. In the next heartbeat, Moriarty passed clean through it, his coat trailing wisps of black vapor that burned away in silence.
The severed flesh didn't bleed—it forgot how. Its texture collapsed into static, its form unraveling into flecks of ink that dissolved before they reached the ground.
"And one cannot keep a single thought alive longer than their own lifespan allows," Moriarty said softly, almost as if reciting a theorem. The tentacles around him quivered, drawing back as though the very logic of his words scalded them.
"You may have changed your vessel," he continued, lowering the saber as the last remnants of the dissolved tentacle evaporated, "but that won't help you for much longer."
The pool of ink above them shrank, its edges folding inward like a wound trying—and failing—to heal. The air hummed with the sound of something vast and dying, the echo of a god's breath caught between dimensions.
"This fight has gone on far longer than it should have…" Moriarty said, his voice calm, almost disappointed, as he swung his chainsaw saber in a wide arc. The blade howled through the air and cleaved another writhing tentacle clean in two, forcing the creature to retreat deeper into the collapsing void.
"And you," he continued, stepping forward as inky mist curled around his boots, "you're the only one to blame for it."
Each step he took made the void shudder; the creature's massive form recoiled as though space itself refused to bear his presence.
"While a voidspawn makes a better vessel than flesh and bone," Moriarty went on, tone clinical and sharp, "they were never meant to fight themselves. Their progeny—their lesser spawn—exist for that purpose. And this one…" he paused, watching another tentacle twitch weakly before severing it in a clean, mechanical motion, "…is far too young to have birthed any of its own."
He tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "So much for your 'years of combat experience.' Perhaps you should have read a few books instead."
At that, the voidspawn writhed, its remaining limbs curling inward as if the words themselves scalded its mind. The abyss trembled—not from pain, but from humiliation.