A harsh light, almost painful, flooded everything. Sakolomé was swept into a dizziness and found himself facing a colossal structure: an immense cosmic gear suspended in the void. Each cog, as large as a planet, bore symbols that seemed to endlessly rewrite themselves—moving glyphs that his eyes could not even fixate upon. He understood without explanation: this machine defined everything, the slightest aspect of his existence—his past, his choices, his defeats, and even the very sensation of standing in that moment.
A voice echoed, monotone, as if it emanated from the gears themselves:
— Trial of the Condition.
— Submit to your condition, or be erased.
An indescribable weight fell upon him, a force that came not from above but from everywhere, crushing him against the invisible ground. His knees hit the void, every bone screaming under the pressure. His breath became a broken moan. He tried to lift his eyes: the gear pulsed like a heart, each rotation sinking invisible chains deeper into his being. Filaments of light, like roots, seeped into his skin, crossing his veins and soul.
__ They want to enslave me… integrate me… define me.
His mind, compressed, began to falter. Images sprang up: versions of himself—child, adolescent, warrior—all kneeling, docile, accepting their place in the mechanism. A ruthless truth cut through his mind:
__ If I give in, I will survive… but I will never be free. Every thought, every gesture, already written.
A corrosive whisper crept into his skull:
__ What if you never had the choice? What if even this revolt was already planned?
The temptation to give up struck him: the sweet idea of letting himself be done, giving up this crushing struggle. For a moment, he felt his arms tremble, his fingers stretch toward the chains.
Then another voice, hoarse and freezing, rose in his heart—his own anger:
__ No… I will not bow. Even if all is written, I will carve my own lines onto these pages.
He fixed his gaze, blazing, on the machine.
— No. I refuse.
The mechanism rumbled, the pressure growing heavier still, his spine bending under the effort. His memories were crushed: his sister's face, Bakuran's laughter, every dream he had ever nurtured. His thoughts shattered like shards of glass.
The voice thundered:
— You are nothing without your condition.
— Then I will be nothing. But this "nothing" will be mine!
With a roar, Sakolomé thrust his hands forward. His fingers grasped one of the cogs, cold as ancient metal, its surface engraved with runes that instantly burned his flesh. The pain tore through him like lightning, but he gripped harder. A first crack sounded; a fissure split the cog. Then, with a bestial howl, he tore it off.
The gear disintegrated in a burst of light. The entire machine trembled, its perfect rhythm broken. Fragments of condition scattered, each piece exploding into luminescent dust. The next gear yielded, then another, the collapse spreading across the whole structure: one by one, the cogs disintegrated, swallowed by the void.
The pressure suddenly released. Sakolomé collapsed to his knees, panting, his hands dripping with blood that gleamed with a supernatural glow. Every breath was agony, every heartbeat reminding him he had just overturned something that had defined his being forever.
Then he felt… a new void, brutal, almost terrifying: all the invisible chains that had bound him were now broken. He staggered, drunk with absolute freedom, wild, painful and exhilarating at once.
Silence settled. In this emptied space, a phrase vibrated, solemn, charged with an ancient echo:
— So, you refuse even the logic that defined you…
— Welcome, Deviant.
Sakolomé:
__ a… A Deviant?
Then... cutoff...
The light vanished, sucked into him. Sakolomé snapped his eyes open, exhaling a burning breath. His body trembled, slick with sweat, muscles aching as after a thousand battles. His chest heaved in jerks, each breath scorching his throat.
He made out a face leaning over him: Rivhiamë, her gaze solemn and worried.
— You made it… you came back.
He slowly lifted his head to her. His gaze had changed: darker, but strangely clearer, as if a veil had been torn from his eyes.
— I had a strange dream!
Rivhiamë gave a brief smile, a mix of relief and dread. She could feel that something in him had changed: Sakolomé was no longer just a survivor, but something new, a being who had rejected even the logic that defined him.
Sakolomé stared at his hands, turning them over and over, as if seeking an answer engraved in his own skin. The memories of the trial haunted him: the broken chains, the screaming void, that painful freedom that had rushed into him. Was it real, or only a dream too vivid?
— How do you feel? asked Rivhiamë, her voice deep but gentle.
He shook his head, unable to put words to the turmoil raging within him.
— I… It's strange. A pause, then a hoarse breath.
— I don't even know how… to define myself.
Rivhiamë nodded slowly, her eyes tracing every microexpression on his face.
— Can you walk? You've been asleep for over a week.
Sakolomé froze, his pupils shrinking.
— What?!
— I'll explain everything later. For now, come. There's something you must see.
He hesitated for a moment, then felt his legs move by themselves. Every step echoed strangely, as if he were rediscovering his own body. Rivhiamë accompanied him, her features closed, a dull tension hovering in the air.
They went out the door. Outside, the scene struck him like a blow to the solar plexus: Bakuran, bare-chested, kneeling, his body bound in chains of magic. His muscles trembled under the strain, his skin marked by burning seals. Around him, Jin Muleo, Lingyin, and Zelongue held the bonds, focused, their faces pulled tight by effort.
Sakolomé felt his breath catch.
— What's going on here?
Bakuran lifted his head with difficulty, his eyes red with fatigue but still shining with a pleading gleam.
— Big brother… help me…
Sakolomé's heart tightened. He took a step forward, but Zelongue intervened, arm raised.
— Stay where you are!
— What are you doing with my little brother?! His voice trembled, on the edge between rage and worry.
Zelongue held his gaze, unyielding.
— He has awakened Deviant powers.
A heavy silence fell.
— He has become a Deviant, Zelongue continued, but at the moment this transformation took place, he was possessed by a mythic demon. That thing is trying to take control.
Sakolomé stood frozen for a moment, as if his thoughts slid over this information.
— Bakuran… has become a Deviant? he murmured. Then his features hardened:
— If that's the case, then how can he be possessed? You can't possess a Deviant. It's impossible.
— You're right. Zelongue crossed his arms, his expression growing graver.
— But your brother did not complete his ascension. He was becoming a Deviant. At this critical moment, the demon slipped in. Bakuran is confused inside: he's no longer truly himself. His elevation process was interrupted, and the creature now occupies the breach.
Lingyin stepped forward, her eyes full of genuine concern.
— Sakolomé… you need to understand. Right now, Bakuran is between life and identity death.
Sakolomé spun toward her sharply.
— What does that mean?!
Jin Muleo answered, his voice low but sharp:
— An internal battle is underway. Bakuran fights the demon, but he is incomplete. He lacks the stability needed to hold on. If we had not sealed the creature with these chains, it would have already taken full possession of him.
He paused, dark eyes fixed on Sakolomé.
— We hope by maintaining this state, your brother can regain control. It's the only way to save him. Any other intervention… could erase his identity forever.
The words hit Sakolomé like a sledgehammer. He felt his breath hitch, a void opening in his chest. His eyes locked onto Bakuran, prisoner in those chains, trembling, each breath torn by a superhuman effort.
A cold shiver ran up his spine.
Between life and identity death?
His mind refused to accept what he saw, but a brutal truth imposed itself: the Bakuran he knew could disappear, replaced forever by something else.
His fingers clenched despite himself. A single word passed his trembling, muffled lips:
— Bakuran…
Sakolomé took a step forward, resolved to plunge into Bakuran's consciousness to tear him from what was devouring him, but Rivhiamë stopped him abruptly, raising a firm hand.
— Don't go, Sakolomé! We are taking care of it!
— What? But he's my brother! he exclaimed, rage in his voice.
Rivhiamë was already stepping away, her eyes turning a crystalline red. With a precise motion, she unleashed a glowing seal over Bakuran; the magical chains holding him vibrated, as if struggling against an invisible force.
— What are you doing, Rivhiamë? shouted Sakolomé, helpless.
She did not answer, focused on the delicate manipulation. The seal expanded, forming a network of golden arabesques that linked to Bakuran's very being. His body arched violently; his muscles twisted under an unspeakable pain. Each convulsion sent a shiver of helplessness down Sakolomé's spine.
He gritted his teeth, fists clenched. He had never hated feeling so useless. Bakuran's face contorted, his lips whispering incoherent sounds. Sakolomé turned his gaze away, unable to bear more.
Where is Salomé? he suddenly thought, a freezing dread rising in his chest. And Kai? The absence of answers made him nauseous. He could not interrupt Rivhiamë or Zelongue, risking condemning Bakuran, but his worry for his sister suffocated him.
Without a word, he left the scene, each step heavy as lead. He entered the small cabin, scrutinizing every corner with growing agitation. Finally, he found her: Salomé, lying on a bed, motionless. Her skin, usually radiant, had taken on an unreal, almost translucent pallor.
— Salomé!
He rushed over, kneeling by her side. His fingers brushed her cold cheek; she was breathing, but her body seemed frozen, trapped in a sleep deeper than death. Sakolomé felt a knot form in his throat.
— What a nightmare… he whispered, voice breaking. I'm tired of ending up in situations I can't control…
What he did not know was that even in her sleep, Salomé fought her own battle.
In the darkness of her mind, she wandered through an infinite void. Her steps led nowhere; no landmarks, no light, nothing but the echo of her breath. No matter how hard she looked, no exit appeared. Each passing second gnawed away more of her determination, as if this nothingness wanted to devour her entirely.
Salomé advanced in the void, her steps echoing like solitary sounds. No fatigue showed on her features; only a burning determination guided her march. Yet the void seemed infinite, a sea without horizon.
Suddenly, two colossal eyes opened in the darkness, their immense and unfathomable pupils fixating her. A voice, deep and resonant, filled the void:
— You have been walking for so long… why don't you give up?
Salomé lifted her head, breath caught.
— Wh… what are you? she asked, wary.
The eyes blinked, then narrowed as if scrutinizing her soul.
— You know your steps lead nowhere. Yet you keep walking… Why do you persist?
Salomé clenched her fists, her eyes shining with fierce light.
— If I can still walk, then I can still hope. As long as I put one foot before the other, nothing is lost.
A heavy silence fell. The giant eyes fixed her without a word, then slowly closed, plunging the void back into darkness. A shiver ran through Salomé; something had just changed.
From the same darkness, a figure emerged, identical in size to her. Salomé held her breath: it was… herself, but different. Her skin was covered in places by scales of a dark purple, shimmering like metal under an invisible light. Her eyes glowed with a reptilian gleam, and a wild, ancient aura radiated from her.
— Wh… who are you? asked Salomé, astonished.
The figure smiled, strangely familiar.
— You don't recognize me? Yet, you have never forgotten me. You have always needed me… because I am your blood and your true nature.
Salomé froze, unable to respond immediately. Her thoughts swirled, searching for meaning in this encounter.
The figure continued, her reptilian eyes shining with raw intensity:
— What is your true name?
Salomé took a deep breath, then declared with cold assurance:
— I am Salomeh.
She smiled. — You thought I was going to say Salomé, huh?
The figure burst out with a short, hoarse laugh.
— I have never doubted you… or me, actually. We know each other better than anyone, Salomi.
She stepped forward, her oppressive aura filling the space.
— Only this… we face a dilemma that could cost us our lives. What do you propose?
Her voice grew sharper:
— You, who walk without ever stopping. You, who always wants to help rather than hope. You, who fights for a future you do not have the strength to protect.
Salomé narrowed her gaze more, a flicker of irritation crossing her calm.
— What are you trying to say?
The figure came even closer, until their faces reflected one another.
— I say you have always wanted to change the future… but you have never had the power to do so.
Her voice became a sharp whisper, almost cruel.
— Your will is immense, Salomeh. But will alone is nothing… What matters is the real possibility to accomplish that will. And that… you have never had.