Deep within the endless corridors of Eugene's mind, the ground wasn't solid — it was memory.
A spiraling track of obsidian light, looping and bending into infinity, each lane shimmering with images of a life that could have been. The faint scent of grass mixed with ozone, like the memory of rain on a field that never truly existed.
Eugene stood barefoot at the starting line. His reflection beneath the track didn't match him — it was younger, lighter, filled with that naïve fire he used to carry before the weight of reality crushed it.
He exhaled sharply. "Guess I have to start running."
The moment he said it, the track responded — glowing beneath his feet, blooming like nerves awakening under the skin.
And from the glow came visions.
Faces.
Hundreds of them, flickering like ghosts in stadium lights.
His mother, her eyes weary from the long nights she spent hoping he'd stop chasing impossible dreams.
His father, arms crossed, disappointed silence louder than words.
Coaches yelling — not out of guidance, but resignation.
The friends who stopped waiting for him to succeed.
The crowd of his memories watched him, unmoving.
Then — the track split into a thousand more.
Each one replaying a version of his life that could've been.
On one track, he saw himself winning — legs pumping, arms slicing air, crossing the finish line to deafening cheers.
On another, he stumbled halfway, clutching his knee.
On others, he never started at all, forever stretching, forever preparing.
The possibilities multiplied endlessly — each version of him trying, failing, running, collapsing, celebrating.
It was chaos, yes — but beautiful chaos.
A cruel, divine mirror of everything he could have been.
His breath hitched as the realization sank in.
Each stride from those other "Eugenes" was a stolen piece of his old dream.
Every victory he witnessed felt like betrayal.
His brow furrowed. His throat burned. The air was thin, heavy, sharp.
He had once believed he'd moved past all this.
That when the Corruption Force found him and filled him with otherworldly power, he'd transcended that old weakness.
He'd told himself he didn't need to run anymore — that he could move through Realities now, faster than thought, faster than failure.
But the Forgerverse was merciless with lies.
And now the Realities themselves ran laps around him — mocking, mirroring, reminding.
As one of the other Eugenes — younger, freer — crossed the finish line, the world exploded into celebration.
Confetti rained down, gold and silver, bursting like stars around the victor's head.
His laughter echoed through the entire plane, unfiltered joy, untainted ambition.
It should've been me, Eugene whispered. His voice cracked, thin and dry.
He closed his eyes, desperate to unsee what the light was forcing him to face.
But the light never dims when the truth is near.
He dropped to his knees, pressing his palms against the track. It pulsed beneath him, rhythmic — like a heartbeat.
His heartbeat.
And beneath it, something else stirred, whispering.
He tried to shake it off, forcing himself to stand again.
"Alright," he muttered. "If they can run, I can too."
He took a stance — arms low, muscles tensed, breath shallow.
The air shimmered. The track stretched. The starting signal flickered above him.
But his body didn't move.
He couldn't.
It was as if gravity had multiplied tenfold. Every part of him screamed to sprint, yet something invisible held him in place — an embrace, suffocating and warm.
He gritted his teeth. "I... I can't... move. What... what is this?"
The echo came instantly — but it wasn't the track this time.
It was a voice.
Familiar.
Authoritative.
Cold.
"You can't move," it said, its tone dripping with memory. "Why can't you move?"
Eugene froze. His breath stopped. His pupils shrank.
That voice — that haunting mixture of disappointment and control — belonged to him.
The man who had defined failure in his life.
The Coach.
Eugene turned.
And there he was — standing at the far end of the lane, hands behind his back, whistle glinting faintly in the false light. His eyes were hollow, black holes carved into a face made of reprimands.
"You failed," the Coach said. His words reverberated like thunder through a tunnel.
"No matter how many times you run from it, you'll always fall back here."
Eugene wanted to shout — to argue, to scream "I moved past you!" — but his throat felt sealed.
The Coach began to walk toward him, slow and steady, each step shaking the track.
"You think speed is power," he said. "You think crossing dimensions makes you free. But freedom without purpose?" He shook his head. "That's just running in circles."
The lanes around them began to twist, the victorious Eugenes fading one by one, replaced by shadows — all of them his failures, his fears, his "almosts."
The Coach's voice rose. "You forgot what you were chasing for. You replaced your will with power, your dream with delusion. You run from everything but yourself."
The track trembled harder.
The images warped, melting like paint under rain.
Eugene clenched his fists. His muscles burned as he tried to move, but the more he resisted, the heavier the air became.
"I didn't forget!" he shouted finally, his voice cracking into static. "I chose this path! I became stronger!"
The Coach tilted his head. "Then why are you still here?"
The question landed like a strike to the chest.
Eugene's body froze again. His reflection beneath him started to move independently — running, sprinting — without him.
Each duplicate vanished as soon as it reached the finish line, leaving behind a whisper:
"Run for what you love, not for what you fear."
And for the first time, Eugene understood what Devia had meant —
that the Corruption Force wasn't the opposite of purity.
It was the reflection of everything the soul couldn't bear to face.
He wasn't being punished.
He was being invited.
The track beneath him began to dissolve into light — thin lines weaving into a single path. His reflection turned, smiled faintly, and nodded.
Eugene took one breath — a real one this time.
Then he ran.
Not to prove anything.
Not to flee anything.
But to remember.
The Coach's voice faded behind him.
And for once, the echo of failure turned into rhythm.
He was no longer running from his past —
He was running with it.
And then, Eugene chuckled, the laughter echoing through the hall. He shook his head, not in disappointment, but in a twisted, cruel realization.
Eugene:(Sharply) "It was you wasn't it, it was you all along."
At first, there was silence, as if he was talking to ghosts, but the ghosts were already seen...
And then..
" Go now, Eugene, run like never before, and after that, you show everyone why you don't get sidelined."
Eugene: " Thank you Omega Devia"
Omega Devia" Thank you"
And then, He went to the empty space where he saw Jair, Eve maid, Banjo and Jason waving at him...and giving him that, welcome to the club look.
The fog was dense—so dense it felt like grief made visible.
It was a silence that breathed. It moved, slow and alive, as though despair itself had found a way to crawl. Every breath Androsha took left a trembling ripple in the mist. Each step pressed faint imprints into the unseen floor of her inner realm.
This wasn't a dream. It wasn't even a vision.
It was her.
The fog was Androsha—her confusion, her regret, her unspoken words materialized into an endless forest of vapor.
She walked, careful, slow, the soft whisper of her feet swallowed by the haze.
Her heart raced with memories she had long tried to lock away. Her breaths came in uneven fragments—half courage, half panic—until she finally stopped and shut her eyes.
"Breathe," she whispered to herself. "It's only me... just me."
And her realm listened. The air quivered, responding like a mirror reflecting thought. Images began to shimmer within the mist, scenes weaving together—her childhood home, her planet Nicron, the turquoise glow of its sky. The faces of her people, the laughter, the gatherings beneath the light of Airious.
It was beautiful.
And cruel.
Because within that beauty was rejection. Within that light was silence.
They called themselves enlightened—the Nicronians, chosen under the protection of Airious. Yet to Androsha, they were prisoners dressed in wisdom.
She saw her younger self again, standing before the Elders, trembling but determined.
Her voice rang with curiosity, not defiance. "Why do we follow Airious so blindly?" she asked. "Why must we be small to stay safe? Why do we reject the Corruption Force if all it seeks is to fulfill our desires?"
The Elders scoffed. Some chuckled softly, dismissively. Others looked at her with pity, the kind reserved for lost children.
They said she was "too young to understand."
That was the day she learned the cruelest silence isn't absence of sound—it's dismissal.
As she grew, she questioned more.
And with every question, the world around her grew quieter, colder, emptier.
She remembered walking through those echoing halls, clutching the books she had written about the Corruption Force. Her hands shaking, her eyes bright with hope that someone—anyone—would listen. But they didn't.
They turned away.
They smiled politely.
And left her there with her questions hanging like ghosts.
Her tears began to fall again now, as the forest recreated that same emptiness.
The halls materialized—blue crystal walls stretching endlessly, her voice bouncing off them like a prayer no god would hear.
And beyond the windows, the Airien Knights were fighting ghouls—monsters whose only crime was clarity.
"At least they're honest," she whispered bitterly. "At least they know what they want."
The fog around her thickened, feeding on her emotions.
It turned darker—first grey, then a deep, consuming black. The trees melted into shadows. The air grew heavy with an invisible weight pressing against her chest.
She fell to her knees, hugging herself tightly. The tears mixed with the fog, her sobs echoing back to her like a chorus of lost versions of herself.
"Why… why didn't they listen?" she whispered, the words breaking in her throat. "I just wanted to be understood…"
The fog twisted in response, mimicking her pain, swirling violently around her like a storm of unprocessed emotion.
Her vision blurred. Her body trembled. Her thoughts turned sharp.
And then—she snapped.
Her voice broke the stillness, raw and furious.
"No! I won't accept it! I won't!"
Her eyes flared violet. "I'll show them. I'll force them to see. They will follow me, whether they believe or not. I don't need their rules. I don't need anyone. I only need me!"
The darkness pulsed with approval.
Until—
"You do, Androsha."
The voice was calm, endless, and deep—like truth itself speaking through an ocean.
Her breath caught. "Who… who's there?"
A soft glow broke through the fog.
A shimmer of light formed, like a reflection of infinity collapsing into a single point.
"Omega Devia?" she whispered, her eyes widening.
"Yes," came the voice—gentle but unyielding. "I am here. But I do not need to talk long. You already know what to do."
Androsha's lips quivered. "I… I don't think I can—"
"You can," Devia interrupted. "Control the fog. Don't let it control you. You created it… therefore you can reshape it. If you wish for others to see you, truly see you—then begin by seeing yourself."
Those last words pierced her like light through glass.
The fog stilled.
She blinked away her tears and slowly rose to her feet.
Her body trembled, but her gaze hardened.
"Alright," she whispered, "Let's end this."
She inhaled. Deep.
Then exhaled.
Her palms glowed faintly white as she stretched them outward, calling the fog to her command. The black mist resisted, clawing at her skin, whispering doubts into her mind.
But she kept going—each breath another act of rebellion against despair.
"You don't define me," she whispered to the fog. "I do."
And then, she released everything.
Every ounce of guilt. Every shame. Every echo of rejection.
The fog exploded outward in a brilliant burst of white, clearing the darkness, revealing an endless expanse of light. The weight was gone. The silence lifted.
Her inner realm breathed again.
"Well done, Androsha," Omega Devia said softly. "You've aligned with your source."
She blinked. "Really?"
"Yes," the entity replied. "You never needed me—you needed you."
Androsha smiled. This time, the smile was real—radiant, sincere, almost childlike. The kind of smile that could rewrite the meaning of light.
As she began to float upward, ascending from her realm, she paused. "Devia," she said, "now that I'm aligned with you… theoretically, could I make others align with their sources too?"
There was a small silence before Devia responded.
"Yes," the voice said at last. "That is the plan. But remember—a seed is better than a stick."
Androsha tilted her head, puzzled but intrigued. "A seed… not a stick…" she murmured. Then nodded slowly, the idea planting itself deep within her mind.
She smiled again, this time more quietly. "Got it."
She turned upward, light spiraling around her body, her hair fluttering like ribbons of fog dispersing to the stars.
But in the far horizon, subtle violet sparks crackled faintly—her ambition whispering still.
A small laugh escaped her lips, then grew louder, bolder, cascading into manic joy that echoed across the clearing white sky.
Her laughter was not madness—no, it was revelation. The kind that makes heaven nervous.
And as her form vanished into the upper ether, her laughter lingered—soft at first, then gone.
Moments later, in that same empty expanse, she appeared beside the others—Banjo, Jair, Eve Maid, Jason, and Vun—all awaiting the next emergence.
Androsha's fog swirled faintly around her ankles, tamed now, obedient.
But her eyes still glowed faint violet.
And deep within them, something new stirred—
not darkness,
not corruption,
but purpose sharpened by defiance.