The walls of the sanctuary still dripped with nameless fluid. Some said it was condensed magma steam. Others claimed it was the "residual will" of the dead. To me, it just looked like crooked tears, waiting for some idiot like me to stare and pretend to find meaning.
"You're trembling," Qi whispered.
I nodded. No point denying it. My body felt like it was stuffed into a rusty iron box, electricity zapping every nerve like dying streetlights.
Nightmare power wasn't "awakening"—it was vandalizing. A drunk storming into my head, smashing furniture, tearing out windows, and pissing all over the floor of my soul.
—"Accept me, you'll be invincible."—"Refuse me, you'll be drained dry like a dead battery."—"Hurry up, or Mom's leaving without you!"
I nearly laughed. Funny thing was—their acting was better than the Bureau's propaganda videos.
Qi saw my smirk. "What are you laughing at?"
"At myself," I said. "Even my self-doubt has started rehearsing lines. I'm basically an unemployed actor."
He went quiet, hand on my shoulder, checking if I was still me.
Inside, the struggle grew louder.
I was scared. Scared of losing control. Scared of waking up with Qi's throat in my teeth, still complaining the meat was too tough. Scared I'd no longer know which voice was mine.
But worse—I was scared of losing the power.
It was like a starving man at a banquet, knowing every dish was poisoned but still drooling. Nightmare power was a toxic mushroom, and the more I understood, the more it smelled delicious.
"Either you tame it, or it tames you," an old rebel once said. He didn't mention that if I failed, they'd carve me into a display specimen at the sanctuary gate.
"Ever think," Qi said suddenly, "that if you're really the Key… your struggle doesn't matter? Keys don't choose which door they open. They just get used."
The words stabbed deep.
I forced a grin. "So I'm just a fancy screwdriver? Should I stick on a 'Do Not Touch' label in case someone uses me on a toilet?"
He didn't laugh. Just sighed. That sigh was heavier than the whispers.
And I realized—the real fight wasn't whether I'd lose control. It was whether I could keep even a shred of human will.
What terrified me most wasn't killing others—it was losing the ability to laugh at myself. When that day came, I'd just be another drip on the wall: mechanical, silent, meaningless.
I raised a hand, caught one of those cold drops. Metallic, foul, but oddly grounding.
"I'm still here," I whispered.
At least for now, I could still laugh, still fear, still write my own lines.