Harten stared in silence at the manifestation taking shape before him. He truly did not comprehend what was happening to his body; was it a hallucination? Was he on the verge of death? Or was Joe truly standing right in front of him?
The phantom Joe let out a soft sigh, seating himself upon the thatched straw bed as he looked at Harten with a chilling detachment.
"Well, it seems you're surprised. I don't really know if you can hear this, or if you've actually reached this stage... but regardless, if my visage has materialized before you, it means you've consumed my chip as well. To be precise: you ate me."
Joe continued in a serene, measured tone:
"My appearance indicates that your chip is feeding upon mine. It's disorienting, I know, but you'll grow accustomed to my manifestations the deeper your synchronization with the chip becomes. This translates to greater power and a profounder comprehension of your purpose. If that purpose is revenge, I won't dictate your actions—it is entirely your choice. I've spoken at length merely as a pre-recorded memory alert."
The manifested Joe took a deep, steady breath.
"Now, you will inherit my combat expertise—though not all of it—along with certain data from my memory bank that will prove useful to you. Whatever it is you intend to do, the process will be excruciating. Your lower body will be paralyzed, and your veins will radiate a green glow for a time, allowing your hands and the rest of your anatomy to gradually adapt to these new, augmented capabilities. And if you understand my words right now, wondering how you can comprehend the language I speak, it means your brain has assimilated my linguistic proficiency. I ensured that language would be the primary data packet transferred so you could understand me. But more importantly... erase me from your memory, Harten. Please, do not bind yourself to me, and do not rejoice at my appearance. I will not answer you, for this is nothing more than a recorded log explaining your condition."
He added a final note before his form began to dissipate:
"Other logs may surface as your harmony with the chip deepens... and so, farewell, ******* __________."
The playback concluded. While Harten listened, he found himself incapable of speech; even if he could have spoken, there was no one to hear him. He failed to grasp the final fragment of the message, as though a deliberate distortion had scrambled his mind.
However, he had no luxury for deep reflection. A searing, agonizing torment suddenly assaulted him, crushing his hands and thoroughly stripping away his ability to stand. It felt as though his hands were being pulverized into dust, reconstructed from scratch, and then pulverized all over again. It began dozens of times, then hundreds, then thousands.
Harten attempted to scan his surroundings while the agony wrung the very essence of his soul, a desperate thought crossing his mind: "Someone... anyone... I need help."
"Help? Who asks for help? Me?" A hysterical burst of laughter invaded his subconscious. "How absurd!" He was laughing internally without any outward expression, even though his physical form looked on the verge of detonating—his veins bulged, his face was contorted, and his hands pulsed with a bizarre green luminescence.
Harten lost all track of time; his only anchor to reality was counting. He counted the exact number of times his hands were shattered to prevent his sanity from fracturing completely: "Nine thousand six hundred and thirty-two..." Had time itself ground to a halt? He couldn't tell. It was only when he reached "Nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-eight" that the torment in his hands finally subsided.
Yet, the agony did not cease; it merely migrated to his face. He felt his skull as if it were a malleable gel, shifting and vibrating in an intolerable wave of pain. Ultimately, he surrendered to the sensation; resistance was entirely futile. Overwhelmed by the sheer trauma, he drifted into a deep, unconscious coma.
After an indeterminate period, he felt a faint tickling sensation on his nose. He tried to brush the nuisance away, wondering, "Am I asleep?" He opened his eyes to find a butterfly resting on the tip of his nose. He brushed it aside, and to his profound shock, he stood up on his feet without a single ounce of pain! Instead, a crisp, invigorating coldness coursed through his veins.
He felt a terrifying reservoir of power coiled within his hands. If he could previously slay a leopard with a single strike, he felt he could now shatter the skull of an elephant with absolute ease. His physical anatomy had undergone a complete overhaul; his weight had decreased, yet his musculature had become lean, precise, and infinitely more efficient.
Harten spoke, his voice sounding entirely alien to his own ears:
"I want to know what my face had to do with augmenting my physical strength. That wretched old man... I truly don't know what his ultimate design was."
He felt his torso, which had been refashioned into the likeness of a sculpted Greek statue—immaculate shoulders, rock-hard abdominal muscles; it was the quintessential physique any man would covet. As he was inspecting his new form, the door was abruptly flung open.
Arsha materialized at the threshold.
"Harten! Where are y—...!!"
Arsha froze dead in her tracks, the wooden plate slipping from her fingers to hit the floor. She stared at him in absolute shock and bewilderment, her tongue barely managing to articulate the words:
"Who are you?"
Harten replied calmly, still trying to comprehend his own altered appearance:
"Who am I? I'm Harten."
Arsha's expression shifted instantly from profound shock to an intense, burning crimson. She spun around and bolted out of the room, utterly consumed by embarrassment.
Harten stared at the empty doorway in confusion.
"What is wrong with that girl?"