Chapter 37: Three Paths
It didn't take long. With the taste of his first human still coursing through his veins, the imp devoured the nameless corpse in a frenzy. One final, deep swallow, and the body was gone.
Then—detonation.
The world flared in all directions. His senses overloaded, crackling like lightning had shot through every nerve while raging magma surged through his bloodstream. Everything amplified, sight, sound, taste, until it bordered on agony.
He drew in a breath. Not the rot-thick air of the Maw. Not decay or blood fog. Air. Real air. Even with the scorched scent of blast residue still hanging, he could smell the green underneath. Something living. Something Earth had that the Maw never did.
The system's voice cut through, clean and mechanical.
[Recommendation: User should evacuate current area. High probability that explosion has drawn external attention.]
Slowly, like gears grinding back into alignment, he forced control over his body. His fists relaxed. His jaw loosened. The tension in his shoulders dropped, and his tail settled behind him, dragging quietly across the stone.
"....Like the dream. Only better."
But even now, even with his belly full of human flesh and his senses lit from within, it wasn't enough. Not even close.
He scanned the horizon...then froze.
Something in the distance.
Lights. Shapes. Movement. A city. Not the same as the one from his vision, but it shared the same unmistakable structure. Steel and concrete. Roads and neon. A place shaped by human hands, and filled with prey.
He stepped forward, unaware at first, until his hand stretched out and his legs broke into a sprint.
[User's heart rate dangerously elevated. Suggest User calm immediately. Encountering humans in current state will almost certainly result in death.]
He wanted to run headlong into it. Wanted to rip through and devour what waited inside. But the system's warning held him back, and reason cut through the hunger just enough to make him slow. He needed shelter. He needed a moment. And he hadn't forgotten...his rewards still waited.
The worst of the blast zone had passed. What remained now were broken stones and sunken earth. Char gave way to old burial markers and fractured crypts, until finally, he saw it, a squat stone structure with collapsed doors.
A mausoleum. The word instantly came to mind the moment he saw it.
He climbed through the opening, rubble shifting under his claws. Two stone coffins had broken open inside. Bones littered the floor, dry and yellow. He didn't care. Gathering up chunks of stone, he piled them across the entrance, forming a crude barricade.
"Should be enough."
He stepped back. Looked it over. Satisfied.
A grin crept across his face, wicked and sharp. Then his body convulsed, just once, lifting him slightly from the ground as energy surged through his core.
"Evolution...!"
He hissed, breath catching in his throat.
"Finally. System, show me my options."
The response came at once. No delay. No flourish.
The panel opened before him.
[System // Notification]
[Evolution // Available / 3]
[Option 1 // Unholy Armament / Bladereaver]
[Option 2 // Profane Specter / Hexwraith]
[Option 3 // Imp / Mawspawn Variant]
The system's voice barely registered as he stared at the third option.
[Display Class Options?]
"Uhh–um, no, not yet. Should pick that after evolving. But system, is this a joke? This third option has to be an error."
[Negative. No system error detected.]
His brow furrowed deeply, his irritation building.
"Explain this, then. How can an imp be an option? I'm already an imp!"
If he'd had hair, he'd be pulling it out.
[Each evolution option is based on specific criteria that must be met to qualify. Option three unlocked due to consumption of blood bead resource. Recommendation: Investigate all options thoroughly before deciding.]
He clicked his teeth, a growl deep in his throat. His claws scraped unconsciously across his bicep. A variant Imp? After everything? It felt like a taunt, like something had pissed in his victory and offered it back on a plate. He remembered the Blood Bead, its impossible density, that illusion of a sea suspended inside a drop. Back then it had felt like destiny. Now, it looked like a joke with sharp teeth.
Snarling, he swiped it aside. Not yet.
He drove a claw into the first option, Bladereaver.
[System // Evolution Path Unlocked]
[True Name // Zar'Kain]
[Ancient Infernal // "He Who Drinks the Battlefield Dry"]
[Common Name // Bladereaver]
[Classification // Unholy Armament]
[Status // Extinct Tier Evolution Lineage]
["From the first wound opened by the first blade, the seed of Zar'Kain fell.
It drank deeply of war. It grew fat on screams.
Where armies bleed freely, its shadow rises."
—The First Book of Red Exodus, 13:7]
[Species Summary]
[Battlefield-born evolution forged through relentless violence, sustained bloodletting, and symbiotic combat. Originally bred as a living weapon, its physiology adapts to continuous warfare. Growth is triggered by inflicted wounds, prolonged combat exposure, and absorption of slaughter residue. As evolution progresses, User's physical form will mutate toward integrated weapon structures.]
[Projected Traits]
[Bloodletting Affinity // Rapid regeneration and strength gain through direct blood absorption.]
[Weapon Assimilation // Partial or full fusion with wielded weapons. Permanently enhances and corrupts compatible gear.]
[Slaughter Aura // Induces rage, fear, or bloodlust in nearby hostile entities. Effects scale with recent kill count.]
[Warfare Mutation // Body adapts over time into a bladed form. Natural weapons, armor plating, and forged growths will emerge.]
[!!Warning!!]
[This evolution path is irreversible.
User may experience permanent combat adaptation and reduced capacity for non-hostile interaction. Future stages may eliminate weapon dependency altogether.]
["Zar'Kain walks as blade, breathes as spear, speaks as axe.
To serve is to wound. To lead is to slay."
—The Last Testament of Lord Azran, Fallen General of the Seventh Hell]
[Confirm Selection?]
[Y/N]
"...Heavy."
His mouth hung open slightly. He wiped away the drool trailing from his lips with the back of his wrist. Even as he read, he felt the numerous scars along his forearms, the ones Butcher's Wrath had left behind. His hands twitched, like they missed the feel of steel already buried in flesh.
He almost pressed yes right then. Almost. But not yet.
He drew in a slow breath, deeper than needed, just to remind himself he could still stop. That he wasn't just a knife waiting to be wielded.
"Zar'Kain...I like it."
He pictured himself armored in flesh-forged steel, body erupting with weapons, blades sliding from bone, hammers fused to muscle, bows drawn by tendon and thought. Visions flooded in: slicing, piercing, breaking lines, dominating fields soaked in gore. Hundreds of weapons danced behind his eyes, each one whispering a promise of power he didn't yet deserve.
His breath caught. Thoughts fractured, reforming too fast to follow. Instinct surged ahead of reason.
"Slow down."
He slammed his fist into the wall. Cracks split the stone.
Too much. Too fast. The escape. The kill. Earth itself beneath his feet. Every nerve buzzed with memory and hunger. And now...evolution. A path he couldn't afford to rush, but couldn't stop rushing toward.
'Calm down. Settle. Think.'
Teeth grinding, he dismissed the Bladereaver screen. Another swipe. A stab of his claw. Option two.
[System // Evolution Path Unlocked]
[True Name // Malachor]
[Ancient Infernal // "Bearer of the Black Word"]
[Common Name // Hexwraith]
[Classification // Profane Specter]
[Status // Extinct Tier Evolution Lineage]
["And thus from bitter tongues and poisoned prayers came Malachor.
The demon whispered forth by spite, invoked by malice.
It speaks curses into flesh, and binds ruin into bone."
—Second Dirge of Prophet Malivus, 6:17]
[Species Summary]
[Unstable spectral entity forged through direct exposure to malignant energy, soul corruption, and long-term curse contact. Evolution is characterized by partial loss of physical structure and transition toward metaphysical contagion-based combat.
All abilities are rooted in spiritual decay, affliction anchoring, and passive degradation of enemy vitality, morale, or cohesion. Warfare through denial. Victory through erosion.]
[Projected Traits]
[Curse Affinity // Converts emotional residue into offensive or binding curses.]
[Hexbinding // Afflictions may be anchored to physical objects, corpses, or soul fragments.]
[Corruptive Presence // Passive weakening effect on nearby enemies; includes fear resonance and stat decay.]
[Phase Mutation // Gradual instability of User's physical form. Partial intangibility projected at higher stages. Detection and damage from non-spiritual sources may be reduced.]
[!!Warning!!]
[Evolution may destabilize User's identity anchor. Soul integrity and memory cohesion may deteriorate without counterbalance. Voice drift and thought fragmentation common in later stages.]
["To speak Malachor's name lightly is to invite ruin.
In whispers and grudges, it thrives."
—Inscription on the tomb of Baalom, Sealed King of Rot]
[Confirm Selection?]
[Y/N]
"So it's combat or curses."
Hexwraith tempted him. Erosion through malice. Death through rot. But it lacked something. Something primal. Face-to-face mattered. Tearing through flesh mattered. The idea of phasing through the world without feeling it... it tasted empty.
He clicked his tongue.
Still one left.
As he thought of it, a dull ache pressed behind his eyes. A migraine born from anticipation.
"This better be worth it."
He sighed through his nose and tapped the final option. The Imp.
The panel pulsed once. Then again. Red text snapped into place. He stared. Didn't move.
Then the veins in his temples began to dance, throbbing, twitching, writhing beneath his skin like worms caught in a live socket.
"...Murder. I'm gonna murder something."
His voice was steady. His body wasn't. Pulse climbing. Breath shortening. He couldn't think. Couldn't process.
This was wrong. A joke so cruel it hadn't even bothered to hide the punchline.
A sick, twisted joke.