You know, when I first wrote about the cards, I thought it sounded really cool — but the more I thought about it, the more it started to feel kind of cringe. I'll do my best to make sure the story doesn't come off that way anymore. Like I've said before, I'm still new to writing, and I really need people to point out what I'm doing wrong so I can keep improving. There's no such thing as too much feedback, so don't hold back!
Also, sorry for taking so long to update. I've had a lot going on, and honestly, I got a little lazy and hit my first case of writer's block — which was an experience, to say the least. Anyway, thank you all so much for reading and supporting my story. I hope you enjoy the new chapter, and please help spread my story around. Your support means the world to me!
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[ First Person POV ]
I screamed until my voice felt raw and small, like a match struck against steel. Pain rolled through me in precise, electric waves—first a million tiny pinpricks across my skin, then a pressure that pushed at the marrow of my bones. I could feel everything the way you can sometimes feel the thump of your own pulse in a quiet room: not just the pound, but the mechanics of it. Nerves fired in new rhythms, axons spiking and stuttering as if someone had flicked a switchboard. My muscles weren't just burning — they were rearranging themselves, fiber by fiber, as if my body were rewriting the blueprint of what it could do.
That awareness is not magic. I taught myself how to feel with that much resolution. Months—years—of practice let me trace sensations down to cells and molecules, the micro-geometry of my own body. That skill is why I noticed the first real change: a surge of calcium flooding into muscle cells, the sarcoplasmic reticulum emptied like a tide, actin and myosin snapping together with violent efficiency. My muscles bulged not from blood or swelling but from real myofibrillar construction—my body was assembling new architecture in real time. Tendons thickened, connective tissue reorganized, and the small, stubborn stem cells that live around muscle fibers (satellite cells) fused and became new muscle. Strength wasn't an idea anymore; it was newly-formed tissue.
Blood followed. I felt the iron in my veins — hemoglobin saturating like a sponge soaked in oxygen. Heartbeat rose with purpose, not panic; mitochondria went into manic overdrive, splitting and proliferating to feed the sudden metabolic hunger. Respiration became a machine. Even my bones complained and then accepted the change: periosteal remodeling whispered as bone tissue densified and elongated. I was getting taller by degrees that should have taken years. It hurt because every living scaffold in me was being remade.
Then the body-language of the thing I'd swallowed began to splice with mine. The black-and-white smear of Cartoon Cat — the impossible elasticity, the smear-frames where motion stretches into a smear of substance — wasn't cosmetic. It was an anomalous biomechanics being grafted onto human tissue: cell membranes gaining pseudoelasticity; extracellular matrix fibers rearranging into coils that could stretch and snap back without tearing. My skin didn't drip so much as detach into ribbons that hovered, the goo rising against gravity with that cartoon logic I'd stolen. It smelled wrong — not of blood but of hot ink and rain-slick rubber — and when I glanced down my red coat was already being eaten, the fabric unweaving into threads that disappeared into my shoulder like wiring.
Neural changes were the strangest. My sensory bandwidth widened: I could feel the microsecond lead of a synapse, the way a neurotransmitter drifted across a cleft. Conduction velocity increased as if my neurons wrapped themselves in faster myelin; reflex arcs shortened to fractions of a second; prediction and reaction folded together into one motion. It was as if a whole new library of instincts had been bootstrapped into my brain. But beneath that rush, my memories — the human parts I had insisted on keeping — stayed stubbornly intact. The page I'd erased removed the cat's memories of its victims, but not the mechanics of malice. I held grief, shame, humor, the small soft things that make me human, like a coin in a fist.
When the pain peaked it stepped down almost immediately — not healed, but acclimated. I rolled out of my bed and felt the floor under my palms as if for the first time after a long fall. My reflection was both familiar and uncanny: taller, the lines of my face sharper, pupils like small voids that tracked light differently. The red coat was gone from my shoulders, consumed in service of something larger; my shirt and boots remained in place, stubbornly ordinary, anchors to the life I refused to lose.
The new abilities announced themselves with quiet, practical tests. I flexed and felt tensile strength in my limbs that could tear through steel; a fingertip tugged at the world and the moment smeared, like a frame stretched in a reel. I could imagine stretching my arm into a sliver of black motion and doing it — not because I wanted to be cartoon, but because the physics inside me had changed. Biologically, I'd gained hyperplastic and hypertrophic capacity, accelerated repair, and a malleable tissue substrate; anomalously, I'd gained the cartoon-cat rules: smear-frames, instant regeneration, and an elasticity that mocked gravity.
Most important: the integration was not a takeover. The orb of its power had merged into my physiology, but my conscience remained. I still felt the sting of what that thing had been, and I still wanted to do something righteous with what it had given me. Power without restraint is a curse; power with a purpose is a weapon. I am changing into something more dangerous than human — and I plan to keep all the things that made me human when this is done
[ image ]
I rose slowly from the floor, the weakness melting away as if it had never existed. My breathing steadied, and when I raised my hand, I caught myself staring at it in quiet fascination. The surface shimmered faintly with traces of black ink that seemed to breathe against my skin, weightless and alive. I flexed my fingers, opened and closed my fist, and every motion felt precise — perfect. Power hummed beneath the skin like a second pulse.
Curiosity took over. I wanted to know how much of this new form I could truly control. Focusing, I willed my arm to divide. Flesh obeyed. My forearm split cleanly down the middle, yet no pain followed — only the sight of blood, thick and black as tar, refusing to spill. It wasn't flowing out but pulsing inward, recycling itself like liquid shadow. The halves twisted and reshaped, morphing seamlessly into two tentacles, then into the smooth frame of a gun, and then a blade — my own body mimicking form and function with eerie precision. With a thought, everything folded back into my normal arm.
A grin crept across my face as an idea sparked. I concentrated again, this time willing new limbs to grow. The black ink crawled across my shoulders, forming skeletal outlines before solidifying into additional arms — each one jet-black at first, then fading to match my skin tone as they completed. I looked at myself in the mirror, studying every detail: taller, stronger, my frame now impossibly symmetrical. My reflection was no longer just human; it was something elevated.
"Damn," I muttered, smirking. "This will be useful."
That's when I noticed just how much I had changed. I stood at least 9 feet 7 inches tall — towering, massive. My physique carried the same sculpted precision as a Custodian Guard from Warhammer 40,000 — those golden warriors bred and engineered by the Emperor himself, each a perfect fusion of biology and divinity. My muscles weren't bulky for the sake of size; they were efficient, designed for power and control, like the coiled tension in an apex predator.
I rotated my shoulders, feeling the smooth coordination of every muscle fiber, the perfect harmony between my human anatomy and the ink-like anomaly that now lived inside me. The black aura around me pulsed faintly, small tendrils of shadow levitating upward before fading into the air — fluid, reactive, almost alive
I let out a soft chuckle that quickly grew into laughter, low and unrestrained. My grin stretched wide as the sound echoed through the room. My hair, still pure white, framed my face like a crown of defiance. I didn't know my limit — not yet. But I could feel it in my bones, in the weight of the power humming beneath my skin. If I had to guess, I could probably level half a city… though maybe I'm overestimating myself. Or maybe I'm underestimating. Either way, I'll find out soon enough.
First, I need to take care of a few things… and tell Mark what I've done — and what comes next. My voice dropped to a low mutter as I smirked at my reflection.
"Human strength lies in the ability to change yourself," I said quietly. "And I'll keep evolving until I reach my limit… and then I'll shatter that too."
I turned away from the mirror, that same smirk still tugging at my lips. "No matter how small the progress, it's still strength. And it's mine."
I stepped out into the hall and a red long coat unfurled around me, swallowing my shirt. Black smoke curled from the hem as I walked — a slow, living mist that clung to the fabric. It took only a few seconds to reach Mark's workshop. I knocked, the sound sharp in the cluttered room; he looked up from a half-assembled gun at the bench.
"What's up, man?" he asked, still focused, hands steady as he tightened a screw. He kept part of his attention on the tool in front of him while scanning me with that practical calm he always had.
"I don't need anything," I said, shrugging. "Just wanted to tell you I've been busy — hunting." I mimed snapping a neck and made the cracked-snap sound, half to tease, half to show what I'd been doing.
Mark didn't blink. "And?" he prompted.
I kept going. "I found something dangerous. I set a trap, hit it with a diversion — sneak attack, basically. Could've gone sideways. Point is, I took its power."
At that, Mark set his tools down carefully, making sure nothing on the bench got damaged. He wiped his hands, stood, and for the first time his face dropped the usual chill. His eyes went wider than usual — not the wide-eyed shock of a civilian, more of a deliberate reassessment. "Tell me everything," he said calmly, he was very curious. "What did it look like? How did it fight? How did you pull its power into yourself?"
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Guys, I'll be honest — I've been really busy lately with work and writing. I had a bunch of new story ideas bouncing around in my head, and I think you're all going to love them. One of them is a wish-fulfillment story set in Overlord, where the main character becomes the Scarlet King. The others… well, I'll keep those a surprise for now.
Anyway, I'm sorry for the delay, but to make it up to you, I added another chapter! Thank you all so much for reading and supporting this story. If you enjoy it, please consider throwing me some power stones — it really helps me keep going. And don't hold back on your comments! Your feedback, even if you think something sounds cringe, truly helps me grow as a writer.
Thank you again for reading, and I hope you all have an amazing day! 😅😅😅😅😅