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The city's biting cold didn't stop Niyx from watching her prey. The young Metamorph was with his friends, standing in front of a shaman's stall.
She sighed, tired. That kind of scene — tarot cards — stirred memories far too old to ignore. Memories from before everything.
But aside from the faint melancholy, her surveillance was becoming irritating. Victor did nothing productive the entire day. He walked around, talked, went home, watched TV… and repeated it all the next day. A human routine, dull. A waste.
She had already understood that his goal in Eldoria was to help evolve the spirit named Merlin — and that had already been completed. Then why was he still there? Why wasn't he searching for his next step?
Niyx couldn't comprehend it. She hated being idle. To her, life was an infinite straight line: one goal reached, and another appeared immediately ahead, demanding more strength, more technique. Always more.
Victor, to her, was a living contradiction.
A complacent Metamorph? A being created to surpass limits, wasting his own potential? If he continued like that, he would never evolve. He would die early, weak, somewhere insignificant.
The thought made Niyx frown.
'I really need to do something. If I don't, this pup is going to end up killing himself on his own.'
To anyone else, she might look like a worried mother thinking about a child's future. But that would be a pathetic lie. Metamorphs didn't care about the weak of their own species. Offspring, relatives — all irrelevant. The worthy survived. The rest… vanished.
A Metamorph adapts to the circumstances around it. Some may appear human, because they evolved that way; some become grotesque and monstrous, because they evolved that way. There was no limit or ideal — each Metamorph had its own unique existence, but adapting and surviving were the bare minimum.
Niyx's interest in Victor went deeper. It wasn't care. It wasn't affection.
It was loneliness.
She was absolute power — and absolute power was a cold place. An existence disconnected from everything. The only bond possible was with someone who could reach her. Face her. Fight her as an equal.
Metamorphs could be intelligent like her. They could evolve into that. But there was something that never changed:
They understand each other through fighting, not talking.
They connect through strength — and only through it.
Victor didn't understand that. And Niyx hated that about him.
From the top of the building, her pink eyes glimmered, releasing a silent, oppressive aura. Down below, Victor felt his stomach churn — a primitive instinct, warning him of the hidden predator.
His body — or rather, his soul — knew he was being watched. An innate perception of the species. An ancient siren screaming: danger.
Victor tried to act normal. But Niyx saw through him. She saw the way he walked without breaking his gaze forward, the way his senses stayed sharp even as he pretended to ignore everything. He had an absurd spatial awareness — she assumed it came from some skill.
Potential. Monstrous potential.
That's what irritated her the most. He had everything he needed. And he still stood still.
After a few more seconds of observing him, she turned away.
'I think that's enough for today.'
She leapt off the building, landed silently, and walked along the sidewalk until she entered a small shop. A little bell rang as she pushed the door.
"Good afternoon, miss! What can I get you?" asked the elf behind the counter.
"Three churros," Niyx answered without hesitation.
"Alright! Just a moment."
One absolute truth persisted — unchanged, indifferent to battles, instincts, or grand destinies:
No matter what she was — monster, predator, or calamity —
Niyx loved sweets.
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