The courtyard had emptied hours ago, the echoes of training and idle chatter replaced by the quiet rhythm of the wind through the trees. Mahito preferred these hours. They belonged to him.
Not his shell, not his conversations, not the distractions of other people's voices. Just him, his thoughts, and the endless hum of possibilities.
Far from the school's walls, in an abandoned complex where even stray dogs avoided the shadows, his other self worked.
Mahito's eyes half-lidded as he leaned against the balcony rail, feeling the faint pulse of the soul-link between them. Splitting his soul had been a curiosity once, a theory tested in brief moments. Now it was refined. Controlled.
The clone moved with his precision, thought with his intention, and, thanks to the new understanding gleaned during the Maki and Mai procedure, carried his technique exactly as his original body did.
Rather, it was more accurate to say he could transfer his full consciousness through that soul link; his consciousness carried his cursed technique.
The soul-link shimmered like a taut thread between them, carrying more than mere instructions. It transferred skill, sensation, and the intricate patterns of Idle Transfiguration without the usual need for proximity.
And through that link, the work continued uninterrupted.
The cavern beneath the complex was lit only by the glow of scattered lanterns, their light falling across dozens of figures in various states of completion.
Some stood tall and still, heads tilted slightly as if listening. Others sat cross-legged on the floor, their faces blank, waiting for the next layer of thought to be stitched into them.
The first breed was familiar, the fly soldiers. Chitin-armored, multi-eyed, and winged, each one crafted from low-level curses remnants and further accumulated surrounding cursed energy, their purpose singular: swarm, overwhelm, and consume.
But the second breed was different.
They were shaped like people. Paler, perhaps. Limbs a fraction too long, movements almost too precise, but unmistakably human in outline.
Where the fly soldiers were built for numbers, these were designed for something more refined.
The clone stood before one of them, a tall male figure with short black hair and an unreadable expression. The skin along his arms was etched faintly with the patterns of his reshaped soul, as if invisible chains had been melted into place.
Mahito had named them Soulforged. The name pleased him, a reminder that these creatures were not simply twisted humans, but something entirely new.
Creating them was costly. Resources had to be chosen carefully. Criminals made excellent starting material. Their souls were already frayed, darkened by deeds they did not regret.
Mercenaries worked too; ambition and violence left them open to reshaping. And those teetering on the edge of suicide often carried such deep fractures in their souls that the rebuilding process was almost effortless.
Mahito had no trouble acquiring them. Nor did it feel morally wrong to him. They were mostly criminals, and those on the verge of committing suicide were put to better use in his hands.
The beauty of splitting his soul was that the clone could operate while the original carried on as if nothing were amiss. A missing person here or there drew no notice in the right parts of the world.
The process began the same way every time: the soul stripped bare, its flaws and fractures exposed, then rebuilt under Mahito's hands. But the refinement came in the next step.
In the Soulforged, Mahito embedded something new: pieces of consciousness stripped from their former human lives. Not enough to be dangerous, not enough to allow them independence from him, but enough for them to think. To reason. To learn.
Each piece was a shard of intent, a splinter of will shaped to slot seamlessly into their new form. With it came memory patterns, problem-solving ability, even a sense of individuality, but all threaded through with one immutable truth: they existed to serve him.
He had learned from the twins that desires were the glue binding souls together. Without a shared desire, bonds frayed and broke. With the right one, they became stronger than steel.
So he wove it into every Soulforged, a single, unshakable desire that sat deeper than thought or instinct: loyalty to Mahito. Not loyalty to his face or his name, but to the idea of him. To the core of his being.
They would look at him, any him, clone or original, and know without hesitation that their purpose was to follow.
In the cavern, the clone moved to the next figure. This one was female, her hair cropped short, her gaze already following his movements. She had reached the stage where the consciousness shard was settling into place.
Her lips parted. "Orders?" The voice was quiet, almost toneless, but the word was clear.
"Not yet," the clone replied. "You will know them when the time comes."
Her head dipped slightly, and she returned to stillness.
Mahito allowed himself a flicker of satisfaction. It wasn't just creation anymore. It was cultivation. Every Soulforged was capable of thought, but their thoughts revolved around him. Their choices would always lead back to him, because their desires had been rewritten to make it so.
Above ground, the original Mahito pushed away from the railing. Through the link, he could feel the clone's progress. The connection between them was steady, the stream of impressions and updates flowing like a second heartbeat.
He didn't need to see the Soulforged to know that their ranks were growing. He could feel them, dozens of minds aligned toward him, pulsing with the same singular loyalty.
In time, they would surpass the fly soldiers. The swarm would remain useful for brute force, but the Soulforged could infiltrate, adapt, and blend. They could wear human faces convincingly enough to walk among crowds without drawing suspicion.
And unlike ordinary followers, they would never betray him. They couldn't. The structure of their souls made it impossible.
He was not troubled by the implications. Whether one called it creation, manipulation, or playing god was irrelevant. What mattered was that it worked. That it would continue to work.
In the cavern, the clone moved to a workbench scattered with fragments of soul glass, crystallised remains of particularly strong wills. They would be useful for the next batch, lending the Soulforged sharper reflexes or faster thinking.
Mahito's fingers trailed over them, already planning.
The knowledge gained from the twins' bond still burned bright in his mind. He had seen how desires could intertwine, how they could merge into something greater than the sum of their parts. That same principle could bind not just two souls, but many.
A single desire, shared perfectly, could unify an entire nation, let alone an army.
And his army was almost ready.