The Shadowed Hand, in their infinite wisdom (or lack thereof), believed the arcane energies stirring within Michael were a dormant pet, patiently waiting for their command. They were, in essence, trying to train a tiger with lullabies. Their rituals, their constant exposure to the island's dark magic, were not awakening a sleeping beast but inadvertently feeding a hungry one. Michael's senses sharpened to an almost comical degree – he could hear a mosquito plotting its attack from across the compound, smell the Overseer's fear of the island's true power beneath his veneer of serenity, and even discern the subtle shifts in the acolytes' allegiances based on the intensity of their envious glances. His mind, always quick, now operated at warp speed, dissecting their pronouncements and spotting the logical fallacies with almost disdainful ease. And the energy within him, the constant tingling beneath his skin, was no longer an alien presence but a rebellious teenager testing its boundaries.
He perfected the art of the blank stare and the monosyllabic response, a performance worthy of an Oscar in the category of "Most Unenthusiastic Cult Convert." But in the shadowed corners of the compound, he conducted his own private experiments. He'd focus his will, picturing a pebble moving, and sometimes, just sometimes, it would twitch. He'd stare at the flickering torchlight and imagine it dimming, and occasionally, it would flicker erratically. "My telekinesis is developing nicely," he'd mutter to a particularly persistent cockroach. "Soon, I'll be moving mountains. Starting with you." He also began his subtle campaign of sowing discord, his approach laced with a dark, almost theatrical irony. To a particularly ambitious acolyte named Theron, he'd remarked, his voice dripping with mock sincerity, "Theron, your devotion to the Overseer is… truly inspiring. Almost as inspiring as his blatant favoritism towards the elder council. One might almost think meritocracy took a detour on its way to this island." Theron's eyes would narrow, a flicker of resentment igniting within them. Michael would simply offer a bland smile. "Just planting a few seeds. See what blooms in this fertile ground of discontent."