Life is a canvas, and every individual is given a set of paints to color their own beauty truths onto reality. Everyone begins by painting a portrait—fingers, toes, and heart staining the canvas with something wholly unique, something only their existence can bring into the world; A color born within them, shaped by the depth of their ideals.
Some shred their canvas into tiny pieces, choosing instead to reset the world. For someone to make such a soulless choice, they must have killed their inner child—their unique color—long before their hands touched the frame.
You might wonder who would go to such lengths? Until you understand how broken a broken soul truly is.
Quazy was once among those who stared blankly at their canvas, questioning the meaning of life. He was also among those who painted freely; his unique color poured from his soul without restraint. And shamefully, he was among those who tore their canvas apart and cursed life for what it was: a happy coincidence turned hellish by clashing art.
Everyone had a canvas, and everyone wanted their art to be admired, envied, and imitated. They forgot that unique hues aren't born through imitation; that art is the expression of oneself, not something that needs to be, or even could be, judged.
The saddest part? Not one artist ever saw their work as a fragment of a grander picture. A single pixel that might mean the world to them, radiating its own pull, while also existing as a dot on someone else's canvas. A dot that could inspire uniqueness, lift broken spirits, give hope that one day you will be heard, and whisper a promise: 'You shall be someone's blank canvas.'
Not even Quazy, the god of art, could overcome the greed to own life's canvas.
Given a choice, a soul will always choose freedom over codependence.
Freedom is good. Freedom is the best. Who wouldn't want to paint the skies and mold the earth to their liking? That is freedom, isn't it?
Codependence, on the other hand, meant order; a structure of give and take—a dull place where excitement is shared, nurtured, and consumed with caution.
Quazy, now a canvas shaped like a dustbin, watched Kudo poke through his contents: the garbage bag he was sure contained Quazy himself.
"We are but garbage," Quazy mused, "unaware of the bin holding us in place. Oblivious to the neighboring bins. The ground beneath us, or the skies above…"
Such thoughts were all a dustbin could do.
"The garbage man!" he gasped suddenly, spotting the deity floating above, arguing with—"A kid!?"
Quazy's former gang approached the deity. Everyone bowed except one—a replacement. His replacement.
It stung to see his friends move on. He had stopped, not the world. When had the world ever stopped for a broken soul?
"That's right—never," Quazy scoffed.
"Can I hide from him?" he wondered, entertaining the blasphemous thought — but fate had other ideas. His former team drifted into his sightline. "Fate!" he whispered, brushing an energy thread he feared most.
Before Quazy could react, the deity tried rushing the kid along, eyes fixed on the threads of destiny.
"Hold up!" Zack blocked his path, his blade wedged between the older man and the boy. "Which one of you is Yash!?"
"That's a fresh pronunciation," the kid chuckled, unfazed by the death humming from the blade's edge. "I'll be calling you that too."
"Kids have no respect these days," Yash grumbled, resting one hand casually on the sword.
"Don't move," Zack warned.
"He already did, assho—"
"—Language!" Yash adjusted the insult's frequency midair, turning it into a compliment before it reached Zack. "Wiz."
Zack imagined swinging in an arc, using the blade's double edge. Yet the movement played only in his mind, while his sword remained pinned under Yash's hand.
"Can't strike if you can't move," Wiz said, frowning at Zack's futile efforts.
Zack recognized Yash's technique; it wasn't brute strength, nor any Slot tied to the concept of Capture. Yash leaned his hand on the sword as though it were an armrest, and the weight of reality pressed down through his palm, pinning the sword to a fixed point. And Zack simply wasn't strong enough to lift it.
Even so, Zack didn't lose hope. His team was only two jumps away. Once—
His hope shattered as Psycho's emotions crashed into his mind. "Of course, he found a loophole only he could use," Psycho muttered.
"I'm guessing I found the right—whatever they are," Zack grunted, withdrawing his sword.
"When can you use it again?" Yash asked, curious.
"Like I'd tell—"
"—A month," Wiz said with a yawn. "What—what did I do now?"
"I knew that!" Yash snapped.
"Then why did you ask?"
"It's polite to ask."
"To ask your attacker when he can attack again?" Wiz countered.
"No! About their slots—or in his case, his artifacts."
"His parents', you mean."
"There you go again! Don't say things out loud. Keep some of it inside."
"Why!?"
"It's called personal space."
"If it's inside the soul realm, whose personal space is it anymore?"
Yash's mouth hung open as he contemplated Wiz's logic. "Okay… you might have a point—might! But it's still polite. Don't read someone's journal. Don't skim their entire life cycle. Same principle."
"Hmmm." Wiz frowned. "But different." He disagreed instantly.
The two continued bickering, ignoring the dumbfounded Zack and the kneeling Division X members.
"Who are these clowns?" Zack blurted.
"Shh!" Pinky hissed, fear in her voice for the second time ever.
"Don't mind him," Yash said quickly, stepping up to Zack's defense. "He gave the Broken-Souls that name."
"Take your own advice, old man." Wiz elbowed Yash.
"But she was about to blow the kid to kingdom come!"
"You were!?" Zack backed away from Pinky — barrier flickering to life. "Why!?"
"There you go again," Wiz sighed, rolling his eyes.
"Let's try this again," Yash muttered, snapping his fingers and resetting the timeline.
"Didn't you tell me not to do that moments ago?" Wiz glared.
Yash ignored him, spotting Zack before he could approach, but this time he nudged the timeline so Zack's squad moved in perfect tandem with him.
"How can I help you?" Yash asked, feigning surprise.
Zack froze. His gang should've been two jumps behind, yet they intercepted his sneak attack instantly.
"You guys are still hiding your true speed from me?"
"What's he talking about?" Pinky hissed through their link.
"Show-off," Psycho scowled.
"Are you?" Bazuka's resentment spiked.
"Not cool, bro!" DJ groaned, voice thick with the same.
"What do you mean, hiding? We were right behind you! Honestly, you've recovered faster and grown stronger," Lux said, trying to sound supportive, even though Zack saw the slime of doubt soaking every word.
"If you're gonna break your own rules, at least do it right!" Wiz said, snapping the timeline again… This time with better imaginary outcomes.
"No!" Yash shouted too late. "Balance, remember?" He scowled at the events reversing.
"Oh!" Wiz brightened. "Forgot… In my defense, you are ridiculous."
"You're way!" Yash pouted. "Don't cut the sentence short; it changes the entire meaning!" He tries to elbow Wiz back, but fails. "And of course you'll blame me for everything."
"I just did." Wiz shrugged.
They watched Zack shoot past them, his detour giving Division X time to catch up.
"Nice Slot," Zack commended Yash.
"What's a slot?" Wiz frowned.
"Don't!" The gang pounced on Zack, pinning him before he could summon his sword. "Have you lost your mind!?" They wrestled him down.
"Now they have more resentment," Yash groaned at Wiz.
"Ten times more. Balance?" Wiz smiles.
"No! Not like this."
"Huh?" Wiz started to argue, but choked on his words as—
"Please stop toying with my to—world."
Wiz bit his lip so hard he nearly vibrated with contained laughter. "You almost called it a toy," he snorted.
"No—no! Never," Yash insisted, rewriting the 'stream of knowledge' mid-sentence. "Never have."
"You're begging for an ass-whooping from the big guy," Wiz warned.
"Everything's fair in a loophole," Yash smirked.
"Even an ass-whooping?"
"Even a—" Yash stops midsentence and glares. "—Shut up."
The only noticeable shift manifested within the Broken-Souls—a ripple born from Zack's defiance of heavenly law, choosing instinct over reality. To restore balance, Yash expanded every Broken-Soul's Sub-Space, offsetting Division X's abrupt rise in strength and tempering the surge triggered by Zack's runaway growth — growth that had stoked their simmering resentment.
"See how many adjustments one little mistake requires?" Yash sighed.
"Says the god who snapped it all into existence!" Wiz snorted.
"That's called talent, bitch!" Yash caught the warped words as if they were a rogue spirit trying to bolt from his mouth and inspected them with a dark scowl. "Quit rewriting my sentences before I speak them," he said, clamping a hand over Wiz's face and pushing the corrected thoughts straight into his mind.
"Are you sure these clowns—"
"—Shh!" Pinky growled, digging into her purse, about to strangle Zack's doll.
"I mean—Broken-Souls!" Zack raised his hands defensively. "I know you know what I know—and meant," he tried to wrestle her handbag away.
———<>||<>——— End of Chapter Thirty-Two. ———<>||<>———