When Grimm woke, the stone ceiling swam above him, colors shifting, light burning too sharp against his eyes.
His head throbbed like something alive was gnawing from inside his skull.
A shape leaned over him... the mantis-masked man. But this time, instead of jars or centipedes, he carried a sword, its blade still wet with someone else's blood.
He tilted his head, insect mask gleaming in the dim glow.
"Impressive," he rasped, voice clicking like mandibles.
"Truly impressive. You've done what I only half-hoped you could."
Grimm tried to lift himself, but his body betrayed him. His muscles sagged, boneless, his throat raw and swollen from forcing the centipede down.
'Why… why am I still alive?'
The man crouched closer, eyes unreadable behind the mantis visor.
"You integrated its soul into yours. Crude and brutal. But practical."
Grimm blinked, confused, trying to understand the words through the haze in his skull.
"There are many ways to fuse essences," the mantis went on, almost like a teacher lecturing a curious student.
"Rituals. Symbiosis. Grafts. But the way you chose—consuming something related to your soul—is the most… primal and most effective... Well that's what they say."
His gloved fingers traced a motion in the air, as if drawing lines on Grimm's skin.
"While you were unconscious, we marked you. The symbol of Black Moon rests over your chest now. A crescent black moon, with a cross piercing its tip."
Grimm's breath hitched. His hand shot weakly to his chest, he felt the tender sting of new ink, raw and hot under bandages.
'They branded me while I slept?'
"And…" The mantis' voice lightened, almost cheerful, as he tapped a finger to Grimm's spine.
"I made a little request of our tattooist. Had him etch a centipede down your whole backbone. A fine piece of work, really. Elegant. It suits you."
Grimm froze. His mouth went dry.
'…He thinks it's cool? This fucking lunatic!'
The mantis man gave a chuckle, a dry, rattling sound that crawled under Grimm's skin.
"Don't worry. You'll come to love it."
Grimm lay still, too exhausted to rage, too hollow to fight.
...
Days blurred into nights, and nights into something stranger. Though day and night is unrecognizable in that place.
At first Grimm thought they would abandon him after the experiment—leave him in a corner to rot or let the venom burn him hollow.
Instead, he was given time. Rest. And strangely enough… care. Proper food, for the first time in what felt like forever.
The one who brought it was not the mantis man.
She wore a sparrow mask, her steps light, her presence softer than anyone he had met here.
She set down the bowl and said gently, "A boy your age must eat a lot. It's for growth."
Grimm stared, suspicious at first, but hunger won. The food was warm, and real, and each bite quieted the gnawing in his stomach.
He almost forgot to thank her. But the words caught in his throat, stuck like all the other things he hadn't said in weeks.
As the days passed, he began to notice the changes.
His teeth—two sharpened fangs nestled among the rest, pricking his tongue if he wasn't careful.
Not the most practical trait, but a reminder of what he had devoured.
His steps grew light, unnervingly so... no matter how fast he walked or ran, his feet made only the faintest whisper against the ground.
'There's no logic to it,' he thought more than once. 'I should be making noise. How interesting.'
He found himself slipping into sleep when others were awake, and when night came, he was alert and alive.
Nocturnal. Like the thing he ate.
His ears caught faint sounds better now or he became sensitive to vibrations... the scrape of boots down the hall, the slow drip of water in the stone cracks, even the quickened breathing of others when they thought they were silent.
His thoughts, too, felt sharper, his brain working faster than his mouth could keep up with.
The scars on his neck remained, two darkened dots where the centipede had first bitten him.
But his body stretched taller over the weeks, bones lengthening, frame hardening with growth.
A month later, under the mantis man's guidance, Grimm finally touched it—Ael.
The strange shimmer within, like particles of soul running through his blood. When he focused, he could feel his core stirring, filling, pulsing with a power that hadn't been there before.
"Use it," the mantis rasped, circling him like a predator.
"Turn it inward. Analyze yourself."
Grimm obeyed. He let the current wash through him, guiding it into limbs, muscles, skin—
—and suddenly, his hands clung to the wall.
His body pressed flush against stone, weight supported like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He tested it, climbing higher, his heart hammering as he stuck there like a spider.
His control was sharper, too. Every twitch of muscle, every shift of balance, he could shape it with a thought.
His body wasn't just his own anymore; it was something more obedient, more precise.
Grimm dropped back to the ground, landing almost soundlessly.
A faint tap echoed, but barely there, softer than any normal step.
He flexed his fingers, still feeling the hum of Ael through his veins, and for the first time since the nightmare began, he let himself admit—
'…This is amazing and terrifying at the same time. I hope I don't lose myself...'
...
They gathered again... this time not in chains, not on operating tables, but in a bare stone room that smelled faintly of chalk and oil.
Grimm counted carefully. 'Four. Last time, there had been four survivors in their sector. Including himself, there should've been three left… yet here they all were. Nobody had died.'
That realization should've been comforting, but instead it set his stomach on edge.
The crow stood at the front, feathers shifting with that uncanny weight, a mask of black glass gleaming.
Grimm shivered the moment he heard the voice. It had been a while since he'd last seen the crow, but the feeling hadn't dulled... the voice sank into his bones.
"You will now be given a technique suited for assassins," the crow intoned.
"The foundation of all stealth is breath. Your technique shall be the Sloth's Breathing Method. It slows the heart, dampens the body, and conceals the soul. Without it, your stealth techniques will crumble."
The words clung in the air, heavy and absolute.
Grimm exhaled slowly, trying not to let the tension show. 'Breathing techniques…' he remembered the mantis teaching him how to feel Ael, how to push it into muscle and bone.
Also he was thought about gathering Ael to his soul core but he can't do it yet.
'This would be different...'
Now that the sectors were being reorganized, they were placed together in a single chamber. Grimm studied the other three carefully.
The first—short-haired girl, sharp eyes that moved faster than her lips. Intelligent. She didn't talk, but she didn't need to; she was constantly watching, calculating, as if the walls themselves were puzzles she intended to solve.
The second—a girl with a wild grin, hair tied in a loose knot. She smiled far too much for this place, her eyes bright in a way that didn't fit. Enthusiastic, almost playful, in the middle of a nightmare.
Grimm's skin prickled watching her, cheerful here meant insane.
The last—the boy stood taller, shoulders squared, his presence pressing against the room.
A domineering aura radiated off him, the kind that demanded people fall in line. Grimm could see the makings of a leader in him, or maybe just a tyrant.
All of them bore it. That faint… wrongness. The kind he had come to recognize in himself.
They had already integrated a soul, just as he had. Different marks, different traits, but the same underlying truth.
Grimm swallowed, uneasy.
'This group is doomed,' he thought, watching their mismatched temperaments clash in silence.
The calculating one. The insane one. The domineering one. And him, who still wasn't sure if he was even sane anymore.
The crow's voice snapped through the silence.
"Your survival was only the first step. Now begins the shaping of your soul."