The void was white.
There was no ground. No sky. Only an infinite expanse of whiteness that seemed to pulse like a living thing.
Steve was standing — or thought he was. Hard to tell when there was no reference point, when his own body felt more like a concept than reality.
Then he heard it.
Footsteps.
Many of them.
He turned slowly.
And saw.
Seven versions of himself.
All standing in a semicircle, watching him with completely different expressions.
---
The first was curled up, arms wrapped around his knees. Eyes wide, wet, visibly trembling.
— I just wanted to go home — he whispered, voice breaking. — Why did I come? Why did I accept? I could have stayed… I could have…
FEAR.
The second was smiling. Too wide. Wrong.
— This is incredible! — he said, almost laughing. — Real power! I can finally do something! I finally matter!
He took a step forward, eyes shining.
— Imagine what we can do! Just imagine!
EXCITEMENT.
---
The third stared at the ground, shoulders slumped.
— It doesn't matter — he muttered. — It never did. I was always useless. I always will be.
The voice came out dead, hollow.
— Dagon saves me. Keara heals me. Jelím protects me. I just… exist. Without purpose.
DESPAIR.
---
The fourth had his eyes closed, hands clasped as if in prayer.
— Mom, forgive me — he whispered. — I tried. I swear I tried. But I'm not strong enough…
Tears ran silently down his face.
— I never was.
GUILT.
The fifth looked directly at Steve, confusion stamped across his face.
— What's happening to me? — he asked, voice shaking. — Why do I have this power? Why did Nessira choose me?
He touched his own chest.
— Who am I, really?
CONFUSION.
The sixth smiled softly, eyes distant.
— Maybe… — he said, dreamlike — …maybe this is what I always wanted. Adventure. Purpose. Something beyond that miserable life.
Pause.
— Maybe I should be grateful.
ACCEPTANCE.
And the seventh…
The seventh stood completely still.
The eyes were different. Not normal brown. But dark — not just the iris, but something deeper. As if there were a void behind them, swallowing light.
The face showed no expression. No visible anger. No hatred.
Only the absence of everything that made someone human.
When he spoke, the voice came out low. Controlled. Dangerous.
— You are all weak.
The other versions turned, looking at him.
The seventh took a step forward.
— Fear? — he looked at the first. — Afraid of what? Of dying? We were already dead in that house. Drunk father. Principal stepping on our face. Mother in a coma.
Another step.
— Excitement? — he turned to the second. — For power that isn't even ours? That is consuming us?
Closer.
— Despair? Guilt? Confusion? — his voice hardened. — All of that is weakness. All of it keeps us trapped.
He stopped in front of Steve.
The empty eyes locked onto his.
— And acceptance? — he almost spat the word. — Accept that we were screwed our entire lives? Accept that we're still being screwed here?
Absolute silence.
— No.
The word fell like a sentence.
— I choose anger.
He slowly raised his hand.
— Anger at our father. At the principal. At Nesin who brought us here. At Zeylor who trapped us. At Nessira who is stealing us.
His fingers curled.
— Anger at everything that hurt us. At everyone who used us.
The other six versions began to tremble. Not in fear. But as if they were losing solidity, dissolving.
The seventh looked at them.
— You are just noise. Distractions. Weaknesses that stop me from doing what must be done.
He snapped his fingers.
The sound echoed like thunder.
The six versions exploded into white particles, dissolving instantly, scattering across the void until they disappeared completely.
Only two remained.
Steve. And Anger.
The seventh version stepped closer until they were inches apart.
— You approved the chaos — he whispered, voice vibrating with something ancient and terrible. — When you used the Percentage System. When you let Nessira in. When you killed those cultists.
The empty eyes glowed faintly.
— Now become the chaos.
His hand touched Steve's chest.
And the world shattered.
---
[REAL WORLD — THORNVALE]
Steve opened his eyes.
But they were no longer brown.
They were absolute purple-black. No pupils. No irises. Only pulsing void that seemed to swallow the light around them.
Any stepped back, hand covering her mouth.
— Steve…?
He did not answer.
Because he was no longer Steve.
The scythe materialized in his right hand. Not gradually. Instantly. As if it had always been there, merely waiting.
The black handle. The curved blade that distorted perception. The purple runes pulsing.
The guards advanced, spears raised.
Steve — the thing wearing Steve's body — moved.
---
There was no technique.
No elegance.
Only pure destruction.
The scythe swung in an impossible arc. It passed through three spears as if they were mist. Continued through armor. Through bodies.
Six guards fell simultaneously, split at grotesque angles.
Dagon reacted instantly.
— Jelím! Containment!
The masked woman raised her hands, fingers curling, trying to enter his mind—
And was violently rejected. As if she had touched living fire.
She staggered back, her mask cracking further.
— I can't! There's nothing there! Just… just…
She didn't finish.
Steve advanced.
He didn't walk. He crossed space. As if distance were a suggestion.
He appeared before a group of five guards. The scythe came down.
The impact produced no normal sound.
It produced silence. A space of absolute void where sound should have been.
Then the shockwave exploded. It hurled the five guards backward with brutal force. They slammed into walls. Bones shattered. Two did not rise.
— STEVE! — Keara screamed, running. — Stop! Please!
He turned his head.
The empty eyes found her.
For a second, she saw something there. Deep. Ancient. Hungry.
She froze.
Steve raised his free hand. Fingers pointing at her.
Purple-black energy began to gather.
— NO! — Dagon burst into motion.
He crossed the distance in less than a second. His sword intercepted the scythe at the last possible instant.
The clash produced a wave that cracked the ground beneath them. Windows in nearby houses shattered simultaneously. The air screamed.
Dagon held. But he felt it.
The strength was absurd. Not human. Not even that of a high-level player.
It was something beyond.
— Steve, listen to my voice! — he shouted, pushing back. — I know you're in there! Fight!
The empty eyes blinked.
For a fraction of a second, they turned brown.
— D-Dagon… — the voice came out strangled. — I… I can't… she's…
Then purple-black again.
The scythe pushed forward with renewed force.
Dagon was thrown backward, crashing through a cart, splintering wood.
Steve turned toward the remaining guards.
There were perhaps fifteen still standing. All retreating, fear visible even through their helmets.
He advanced.
The scythe cut. Cut. Cut.
He didn't need to aim. Every strike landed. Every movement was perfect, executed by something that had practiced for millennia.
Bodies fell. Blood painted the streets. Screams echoed.
Any watched in horror.
This isn't him. Not the shy boy who avoided eye contact. Who smiled nervously. Who held my hand like it was the most precious thing in the world.
This is… a nightmare wearing his skin.
That was when she saw it.
Steve hesitated.
Just a second. The scythe stopped mid-swing. His body trembled.
The eyes flickered. Purple. Brown. Purple. Brown.
Internal struggle.
Keara saw it too.
She didn't think. She just reacted.
She ran straight toward him. No weapon. No defense.
— KEARA, NO! — Dagon shouted.
Too late.
She reached him. Hugged him.
Tight. Firm. Like a mother embracing a child she almost lost.
— Steve — she whispered against his shoulder. — I know you're in there. I know you're fighting.
The scythe trembled.
— I won't let you go — she continued, voice breaking. — I won't lose you. Come back.
The eyes flickered faster. Purple. Brown. Purple—
Brown.
And stayed that way.
The scythe fell from his hands. Dissolved before touching the ground.
Steve collapsed.
Keara held him, lowering him gently.
— It's okay — she murmured. — It's over. You're back.
He was trembling violently. Tears streaming down his face.
— I… I killed… how many did I…
He looked around.
Bodies. So much blood. Destruction.
All caused by him.
— No — his voice broke. — No, no, no…
Keara held him tighter.
— Shh. It wasn't you. It wasn't—
— IT WAS! — he shouted, pulling away. — I felt it! Every death! Every cut! I was there! I…
He vomited violently.
Dagon approached slowly. Knelt down.
— Kid.
Steve didn't look up.
— Look at me.
He forced himself. His eyes met Dagon's.
— I won't lie. It was bad. Really bad.
Pause.
— But you fought. And you came back. That matters.
— They're dead!
— Yes. They are. And you'll carry that.
His voice was hard but honest.
— But if you hadn't come back? It would've been much worse. So accept that you fought. And that you won. Today.
Steve just shook his head, tears still falling.
Dagon stood. Looked around.
Dead guards. Others injured, fleeing. The street destroyed. Thornvale in chaos.
He turned to Any.
— Your uncle won't stop. You know that, right?
She nodded, removing her veil. Determination revealed.
— I know.
— Then we finish what we started.
Dagon looked at each of them.
— We end this mission first. Resolve Any's situation and her parents'. Make sure Matthias can't threaten again.
Then he turned to Steve.
— After that, we go after answers about Nessira. Before it's too late.
Steve lifted his face.
— Do you think… that I can control her?
Dagon didn't answer immediately.
Then:
— I don't know. But we'll find out. Together.
He extended his hand.
Steve looked at it. Hesitated.
Then took it.
Dagon pulled him to his feet.
— Now let's move. Before reinforcements arrive.
The group moved quickly. Any leading through side streets. Jelím at the rear. Keara healing minor wounds.
Steve walked in silence.
He stared at his own hands. Still trembling.
I can still feel her. In there. Waiting.
And next time… will I be able to come back?
He had no answer.
Only fear.
And the terrible certainty that the chaos inside him was only beginning.
[CONNECTION: 10%]