The creature watched Sakolomé, a contemptuous sneer clinging to its lips. Its red eyes seemed to pierce to the marrow of his being.
— You dared to want to become a Deviant... without my consent?
The deep, distorted voice resonated throughout the space. Sakolomé was suffocating, muscles frozen, breath short. He felt his heart pounding wildly.
— Who are you, dammit? Why are you here? he gasped. — Are you... my shadow self?
The creature burst into a hoarse, chilling laugh.
— Your shadow self? Hahaha... no. I am not you. I never was. I am what you others call... a Demigod.
The word struck like thunder. Sakolomé's eyes widened, his throat dry.
— A... a Demigod...?
The entity slowly nodded, its horns seeming to cleave the darkness around them. Its features distorted by a disturbing smile, it stepped forward, each movement shaking the liquid ground.
— And... what is your name? asked Sakolomé, trying to keep his voice steady despite the fear knotting his stomach.
— My name has no meaning for you yet. You are not ready to pronounce it, much less bear it. You think you have merged with your shadow self... Sakolomeh? Good. But even after that, I am still here, and I prevent you from becoming a Deviant. Do you know why?
Sakolomé, frozen, slowly shook his head, heart heavy. He felt each word spoken by this being bore the weight of a crushing truth.
— I prevent you from becoming a Deviant because it is not yet time.
— Not... time? repeated Sakolomé, eyebrows furrowing. — I don't understand anything! What is a demigod doing inside my body? What's this "right time" story? You think I'm an object that belongs to you?! You have no right to intrude in my being and decide for me!
The creature sneered, revealing a row of shadowy fangs.
— Try to stop me then. Even if you called on Zelongue, Rivhiamë... or even your dear sister, now a Deviant... you would accomplish nothing against me. I am not a parasite you can expel. I am you in what you still refuse to confront... and more than you at once.
It raised a colossal hand, its clawed finger pointing directly at Sakolomé.
— You still ignore what lies within you. Even if you tried to understand it, you would not succeed. Tell me... why do you want so much to become a Deviant? To save Bakuzan?
Sakolomé felt an icy shiver run through him. His hands trembled, but he met the giant's blazing gaze.
— Of course I want to find Bakuzan! I know I am not strong enough to defeat him, but... if I become Deviant, maybe I'll have a chance to reason with him, to bring him back!
The creature wore a cruel, almost amused smile.
— Even if you became Deviant now... you would have no chance to defeat Bakuzan. Not as you are.
Sakolomé, stunned, widened his eyes.
— What...?
The being slowly tilted its head, its fiery look burning even more intensely.
— Ebon Woe. The Black Grief. That is what your brother has become, Sakolomé.
The words echoed in Sakolomé's mind like a slap. A flood of memories rushed in forcefully: Ysolongue's face, her enigmatic words:
"— Sakolomé... do you know what is the strangest?
He looked at her, attentive, silent. Shushu on his head also didn't move.
— It's you... she continued in a soft, shattered voice, when I first saw you... I had this strange feeling. You reminded me of someone.
She gently raised her eyes, misted.
— You look like Ebon Woe.
..."
His eyes opened even wider.
— W-What?!
The creature's voice still resonated in Sakolomé's mind, a lingering echo mingling with the frantic beating of his heart. He clenched his fists so hard his knuckles whitened, voice trembling:
— No... no... Bakuzan... He can't... he can't have become a criminal like Ebon Woe...
A thunderous laugh shook the darkness, a sinister vibration that made the air around him shudder.
— Let me laugh, sneered the creature. — We're indeed talking about the same Bakuzan who wiped out an entire clan... to the last breath?
Sakolomé raised his eyes toward it, his face ravaged by anger and disbelief.
— He... he wasn't himself! He was... out of control!
His arms trembled. Words remained stuck in his throat, drowned in pain. Tears formed, slowly rolling down his cheeks.
— Bakuzan... he keeps sinking... he murmured, voice broken. — He's become a criminal on a divine scale... Why... why can't he stop...?
The tears, burning and bitter, mingled with the rage consuming his chest. His red, moist eyes once again fixed on the monstrous silhouette before him.
— And you? Why do you prevent me from becoming a Deviant, huh?! My brother is only sinking! I can't... I can't keep watching helplessly! No!
The creature leaned slightly toward him, its red eyes blazing with a glacial gleam. Its voice, calm and sharp, fell like a sentence:
— If you tried to confront your brother now... even as a Deviant... he would kill you.
Sakolomé opened his eyes wide, stupefied, breath cut off. The words echoed in his skull, sharp as blades.
The creature continued, relentless:
— Your brother is no longer the Bakuzan you knew. He is consumed by his thirst for power. I believe he has lost himself... lost in the tear that devours him. Each step he takes leads him deeper into the abyss. Approaching him now... would condemn you.
The creature began to smile, a hard and almost cruel grin. Its shadow warped behind it, as if even the light recoiled.
The creature:
— But you know... if I tell you that you cannot beat him, even as a Deviant, it's because he has become something that makes the most powerful gods shudder. He has become... the flow of the Narration.
Sakolomé:
— What?
Sakolomé's heart skipped a beat. A cold sweat slid down his temple; he had spoken the word, but could not grasp its full meaning.
The creature:
— Ñout said that two meta-conceptual forms were erased by the Scriptomaton. It was not the pure Narration that destroyed them... but Ebon Woe. Ebon Woe, who became one of its currents.
It paused. Its eyes narrowed, two burning sparks that seemed to probe the void.
— The Narration, Sakolomé... is the universal current. The absolute framework that encompasses everything. It has no face or independent thought; it is the metaphysical structure where all exists. No one can manipulate or oppose it... except perhaps Mother and the originating gods. For everyone else, there is only one option: to harmonize with it.
The Deviant felt a shiver climb up his spine.
— Your brother is not the Narration itself. He is a conscious wave within its flow. His thoughts, his actions, every pulse of his being flows so perfectly in the current that the Narration no longer distinguishes where he ends and where it begins. Even the Scriptomaton, which absorbs all rebellion, records his acts as native lines of the system. He can reshape fragments of reality, and all of this passes as "authorized," because the Narration believes it acts upon itself.
It slightly tilted its head, and its smile widened to hardness.
— But understand this well... he controls nothing. He cannot force the Narration to write what it does not already allow. He surfs the river; he is not the river. As long as he remains a wave, he is inseparable from the cosmic, invisible will, and that is what makes him so dangerous.
Then its gaze darkened, and its voice became a cold blade:
— If one day he tried more than that... if he sought to rise to the rank of the current, to become the consciousness of the Narration... it would break him without hesitation. It would recode him as a fixed myth, or expel him from the current, reducing him to the fragility of a mere mortal. And if he dared deny the Narration itself... it would freeze him into narrative zero, a point of absolute annihilation.
Silence fell. Sakolomé felt his legs shake. Every word echoed like a sentence: Ebon Woe had become prodigiously powerful... but with every heartbeat, he danced on the edge of his own destruction.
Sakolomé remained silent, eyes lost in the void, face marked by silent sadness. In his mind, an infinity of questions swirled without ever finding answers. A chilling tension weighed on his shoulders, as heavy as the black water rising inexorably around him.
The creature watched him, its strange pupils shining with an unfathomable gleam.
The creature:
— I cannot accept making you a Deviant... not now. Your brother knows. He watches you... he waits. If you cross this line, he could erase you from existence, or trap you in a state that would affect me as well. And that... I cannot afford.
The dark water now rose to his shoulders, clinging to his skin like living ink. Sakolomé did not react, frozen in total silence, his thoughts engulfed by an ocean of confusion.
The creature:
— But do not worry. I can make you a pseudo-Deviant... grant you certain traits, without you being fully one. Thus, for your brother, you will only be an insignificant bug, a meaningless anomaly.
But before that... you will stay here. With me.
The pool then engulfed Sakolomé entirely. His body dissolved into the black liquid, swallowed by a violent ripple. His silhouette disappeared like a flame blown by the wind.
The creature:
— You will return... when you accept to follow the path I offer you without resistance. You must understand!
The water's surface calmed, becoming smooth and silent again. There was no trace of Sakolomé: he had been completely absorbed.