Re: The Heir Returns
Posted: Thu May 22, 2025 1:09 pm
Step 3: Sustain
Day 5. Sustain. This was the most dangerous step. Jao focused, channeling the Malice – that dark, swirling void of energy – towards his right arm. He intent was simple, terrifyingly difficult: make the form stick. Coax the scale-like plating, the shifting obsidian-like structure that he had fleetingly achieved yesterday, to endure.
The energy responded, boiling under his skin, erupting outward in shimmering, jagged plates of darkness that clung to his arm. It looked like solid night, reflecting no light, yet pulsing with a suppressed, internal power. But holding it required everything. His mind was a battlefield, his will a desperate dam against a rising tide. The Malice was intrinsically unstable, a primordial chaos that yearned to collapse back into formlessness, or worse, to twist and mutate into something uncontrolled, something that would devour not just others, but Jao himself. It was a battle on a razor's edge, each second a brutal, internal war against the Malice's inherent instability and the raw, untamed chaos of Aphosis that fueled it.
Sweat slicked Jao's face, tracking paths through the dust on his skin. His muscles screamed, trembling with the sheer, unnatural strain of holding the form against its will. The chamber's hum deepened, the crystalline walls absorbing the worst of the energy's fluctuations, preventing a blowback that could have shattered the very foundation they stood on.
Despite the painful concentration, the form wouldn't hold. It flickered, weakened, and then, with a painful, jarring snap, recoiled inward. It wasn't a gentle fading but a violent retraction, like a snapped elastic band lashing back. A deep, burning ache lingered where the Malice had solidified, a phantom pain, a hollowness that felt like a piece of his essence had been devoured by the retreating tide.
Yang watched, his expression unreadable, a silent judge. Occasionally, he'd step forward, his movements economical and precise, adjusting Jao's stance or offering a quiet instruction on breathing, a subtle anchor in the internal storm. "The form is not a shell," he finally said, his voice low, cutting through the fading hum of the chamber. "It is you. Sustain is not holding it, it is holding yourself within it. You are the anchor, Jao."
Day 6 brought a fragile progress. The collapses were less frequent, the painful snap dulled to a jarring ache. Jao spent hours, pushing his limits, learning to be the anchor Yang described. He could now maintain significant, partial transformations – a scaled arm, a leg sheathed in obsidian, wings of shadow unfolding and holding for several minutes at a time. He felt the monumental energy drain, the exhaustion that followed each sustained effort, but the forms were stable. They didn't twist or recoil violently. He was feeling the raw power, yes, but now, finally, he felt his will imposing itself upon it, tempering it. He was close.
Day 7. Mastery.
Jao woke with a stillness in his core he hadn't felt before. The exhaustion of the previous day lingered, a physical reminder of the struggle, but beneath it thrummed a quiet confidence. The pieces – Invocation, Reflection, Sustain – were no longer separate concepts. They were integrated facets of a single, terrifying potential coiled within him. He stood before Yang in the White Mirror chamber, the silence amplifying the powerful thrumming energy now resonating in his very chest.
He didn't force the Malice. He didn't command it. He focused inward, aligning himself with it, letting the storm flow through him. He guided it with the purpose forged in this demanding week, anchored it with the iron will he had tempered over days of brutal sustain. He embraced the chaotic nature of Aphosis, no longer seeing it merely as destruction, but as fundamental, transformative power. He saw himself as a nexus, an intersection of the countless souls he had consumed, a confluence of their goals, their ambitions, their very essence. A living canvas, his cursed inheritance the very paint of the abyss itself, able to give shape, to sculpt, to mold.
He spoke, the words not a command, but an affirmation, a declaration of the identity he had forged in this crucible of struggle:
"Profane Embodiment."
The air within the chamber began to swirl violently, not just around him, but coalescing from within his very being, a plume of shadowy, turbulent energy erupting upward. It was a living maelstrom of his Malice, his inheritance given terrifying voice.
"Umbral Artificer..."
The swirling Malice wasn't just formless chaos. It became a reflection, fleeting yet breathtakingly clear – a storm-like image of Aphosis, immense and ancient, flying above him, a vision of primal power. Then, the tempest turned inward, not destroying, but devouring Jao. It consumed the man standing there, but it wasn't an end; it was a complete rebirth. Where flesh and sinew had been, a body of living obsidian emerged, jagged and powerful, pulsing with contained power that dwarfed the chamber's containment. His eyes, set deep within the dark form, burned not with mundane light but with a flaming violet glow – the pure, unadulterated chaos of Aphosis given stable, terrifying form. His head, crafted from pure darkness, did not rest on broad shoulders but wafted like an eternal flame, shifting and swaying in the phantom gales of his own generated storm. He was taller, broader, radiating an oppressive aura that made the very crystal of the chamber walls strain and groan under the pressure. His existence, his Profane Embodiment, challenged the limits of the White Mirror, his power eclipsing anything it had held, even that of his father, Yang.
"I can feel them...each and every soul I have consumed," The voice that emerged was not Jao's, but a deep, resonant echo, layered with countless whispers. "Their goals, their ambitions... their powers. As if I could repaint them with but a thought... a whim."
Yang’s stoicism finally broke. A faint, almost imperceptible breadth of awe touched his steady gaze as he looked upon the being his son had become. "You've done it..." he breathed, his voice barely a whisper in the echoing chamber. "You are ready."
Hearing those words, validation from the man who had pushed him to the brink, brought Jao's transformation to a halt. The dark manifestation receded, the living obsidian dissolving back into swirling Malice before collapsing inward, returning him to his original, human form. He stood there for a moment, staring at his palm, the phantom weight of the living obsidian heavy, feeling the nostalgia of the power that had just ebbed from him. Then, his legs gave out. He collapsed from utter exhaustion onto the chamber floor.
Triumph. He had done it. He had mastered the curse, made the terrifying inheritance his own.
Yet, hidden deep within the receding Malice, within the echo of Aphosis, something smiled. A sneering, malefic grin whispered promises of power, dominion, and consumption. Jao had anchored the form, but perhaps Aphosis saw the anchors not as restraints, but as footholds. The mastery was achieved, but the price, and the true nature of the power, might just be beginning to reveal itself.
Day 5. Sustain. This was the most dangerous step. Jao focused, channeling the Malice – that dark, swirling void of energy – towards his right arm. He intent was simple, terrifyingly difficult: make the form stick. Coax the scale-like plating, the shifting obsidian-like structure that he had fleetingly achieved yesterday, to endure.
The energy responded, boiling under his skin, erupting outward in shimmering, jagged plates of darkness that clung to his arm. It looked like solid night, reflecting no light, yet pulsing with a suppressed, internal power. But holding it required everything. His mind was a battlefield, his will a desperate dam against a rising tide. The Malice was intrinsically unstable, a primordial chaos that yearned to collapse back into formlessness, or worse, to twist and mutate into something uncontrolled, something that would devour not just others, but Jao himself. It was a battle on a razor's edge, each second a brutal, internal war against the Malice's inherent instability and the raw, untamed chaos of Aphosis that fueled it.
Sweat slicked Jao's face, tracking paths through the dust on his skin. His muscles screamed, trembling with the sheer, unnatural strain of holding the form against its will. The chamber's hum deepened, the crystalline walls absorbing the worst of the energy's fluctuations, preventing a blowback that could have shattered the very foundation they stood on.
Despite the painful concentration, the form wouldn't hold. It flickered, weakened, and then, with a painful, jarring snap, recoiled inward. It wasn't a gentle fading but a violent retraction, like a snapped elastic band lashing back. A deep, burning ache lingered where the Malice had solidified, a phantom pain, a hollowness that felt like a piece of his essence had been devoured by the retreating tide.
Yang watched, his expression unreadable, a silent judge. Occasionally, he'd step forward, his movements economical and precise, adjusting Jao's stance or offering a quiet instruction on breathing, a subtle anchor in the internal storm. "The form is not a shell," he finally said, his voice low, cutting through the fading hum of the chamber. "It is you. Sustain is not holding it, it is holding yourself within it. You are the anchor, Jao."
Day 6 brought a fragile progress. The collapses were less frequent, the painful snap dulled to a jarring ache. Jao spent hours, pushing his limits, learning to be the anchor Yang described. He could now maintain significant, partial transformations – a scaled arm, a leg sheathed in obsidian, wings of shadow unfolding and holding for several minutes at a time. He felt the monumental energy drain, the exhaustion that followed each sustained effort, but the forms were stable. They didn't twist or recoil violently. He was feeling the raw power, yes, but now, finally, he felt his will imposing itself upon it, tempering it. He was close.
Day 7. Mastery.
Jao woke with a stillness in his core he hadn't felt before. The exhaustion of the previous day lingered, a physical reminder of the struggle, but beneath it thrummed a quiet confidence. The pieces – Invocation, Reflection, Sustain – were no longer separate concepts. They were integrated facets of a single, terrifying potential coiled within him. He stood before Yang in the White Mirror chamber, the silence amplifying the powerful thrumming energy now resonating in his very chest.
He didn't force the Malice. He didn't command it. He focused inward, aligning himself with it, letting the storm flow through him. He guided it with the purpose forged in this demanding week, anchored it with the iron will he had tempered over days of brutal sustain. He embraced the chaotic nature of Aphosis, no longer seeing it merely as destruction, but as fundamental, transformative power. He saw himself as a nexus, an intersection of the countless souls he had consumed, a confluence of their goals, their ambitions, their very essence. A living canvas, his cursed inheritance the very paint of the abyss itself, able to give shape, to sculpt, to mold.
He spoke, the words not a command, but an affirmation, a declaration of the identity he had forged in this crucible of struggle:
"Profane Embodiment."
The air within the chamber began to swirl violently, not just around him, but coalescing from within his very being, a plume of shadowy, turbulent energy erupting upward. It was a living maelstrom of his Malice, his inheritance given terrifying voice.
"Umbral Artificer..."
The swirling Malice wasn't just formless chaos. It became a reflection, fleeting yet breathtakingly clear – a storm-like image of Aphosis, immense and ancient, flying above him, a vision of primal power. Then, the tempest turned inward, not destroying, but devouring Jao. It consumed the man standing there, but it wasn't an end; it was a complete rebirth. Where flesh and sinew had been, a body of living obsidian emerged, jagged and powerful, pulsing with contained power that dwarfed the chamber's containment. His eyes, set deep within the dark form, burned not with mundane light but with a flaming violet glow – the pure, unadulterated chaos of Aphosis given stable, terrifying form. His head, crafted from pure darkness, did not rest on broad shoulders but wafted like an eternal flame, shifting and swaying in the phantom gales of his own generated storm. He was taller, broader, radiating an oppressive aura that made the very crystal of the chamber walls strain and groan under the pressure. His existence, his Profane Embodiment, challenged the limits of the White Mirror, his power eclipsing anything it had held, even that of his father, Yang.
"I can feel them...each and every soul I have consumed," The voice that emerged was not Jao's, but a deep, resonant echo, layered with countless whispers. "Their goals, their ambitions... their powers. As if I could repaint them with but a thought... a whim."
Yang’s stoicism finally broke. A faint, almost imperceptible breadth of awe touched his steady gaze as he looked upon the being his son had become. "You've done it..." he breathed, his voice barely a whisper in the echoing chamber. "You are ready."
Hearing those words, validation from the man who had pushed him to the brink, brought Jao's transformation to a halt. The dark manifestation receded, the living obsidian dissolving back into swirling Malice before collapsing inward, returning him to his original, human form. He stood there for a moment, staring at his palm, the phantom weight of the living obsidian heavy, feeling the nostalgia of the power that had just ebbed from him. Then, his legs gave out. He collapsed from utter exhaustion onto the chamber floor.
Triumph. He had done it. He had mastered the curse, made the terrifying inheritance his own.
Yet, hidden deep within the receding Malice, within the echo of Aphosis, something smiled. A sneering, malefic grin whispered promises of power, dominion, and consumption. Jao had anchored the form, but perhaps Aphosis saw the anchors not as restraints, but as footholds. The mastery was achieved, but the price, and the true nature of the power, might just be beginning to reveal itself.