The pain was not physical.
It was an agony of the soul, a silent, psychic shriek that echoed in the deepest parts of his consciousness. Kafka felt the cold, intelligent shadow-essence, the "elixir," touch the raging, chaotic core of Kaiju No. 8 within him. It was not a merger. It was an invasion.
He saw it in his mind's eye: the wild, emerald-green sun of his power, a thing of pure instinct and untamed life, being pierced by a needle of absolute, sentient darkness. The shadow-essence did not attack. It flowed, it spread, it permeated, a drop of black ink turning a vast sea of water grey. It wasn't destroying his power; it was organizing it, teaching it, giving it form and purpose beyond simple rage.
He felt the monster within him—the wild beast he had been struggling to control—convulse. It was being… tamed. No, not tamed. It was being educated. Evolved. Its raw, instinctual ferocity was being forged and sharpened on the whetstone of the Monarch's cold, absolute logic.
He collapsed to his knees, his hands clawing at the grimy concrete of the waterfront, his body trembling uncontrollably. He wasn't screaming aloud. All the noise, all the agony, was on the inside.
The Monarch's shadow clone watched, its violet eyes glowing with a clinical detachment, observing the results of its experiment. [The integration is proceeding. The primitive consciousness is resisting, but the logic of the shadow is absolute. It will either adapt or be shattered.]
And then, as suddenly as it began, the agony stopped.
Silence. A profound, internal silence he had never experienced before.
The roaring furnace in his soul was still there. But it was no longer a wild, chaotic inferno. It was a controlled, focused plasma burn. The constant, angry buzz at the back of his mind, the monster's latent rage, was gone.
Replaced by a quiet, calm, and deeply intelligent hum.
Kafka slowly pushed himself to his feet, his breath ragged. He felt… different. He felt like himself, but also… not. It was like he had been listening to a chaotic orchestra his whole life and someone had just handed every instrument a sheet of music. He was the composer, and for the first time, the symphony was playing in tune.
He tentatively raised his right hand.
"Armor," he whispered.
The response was instantaneous and perfect. The black-green biological armor didn't erupt; it flowed. It grew over his hand and arm like a second, living skin, forming a gauntlet that was sleeker, sharper, and more defined than ever before. He hadn't willed it into that specific shape. The armor itself seemed to know what form was most efficient, most protective.
He flexed his fingers, and the armored knuckles sharpened into claws. He relaxed, and they receded. It was effortless. The power was no longer a tool he had to wrestle with; it was a part of him, an extension of his body that could anticipate his needs.
The shadow clone nodded once, a gesture of approval. [The primary integration is successful. The subordinate consciousness has been born. It is now bound to your will. Give it a name.]
"A name?" Kafka asked, staring at his armored hand in awe.
[It is a piece of your own soul, given shape by my power. It requires a designation. A way for you to command it beyond simple thought. A name gives it focus.]
He looked at the armor, the dark, living shadow of his own power. It was his partner now. His constant, silent companion. What would he call it?
A memory from his janitorial days surfaced. The technical name for the residue left behind by Kaiju after a battle, the stuff he cleaned up every day: "trace elements." Remnants. The designation for what was left after the primary event was over. Traces. It felt… fitting. He was a remnant of his own dream. His power was a remnant of a Kaiju.
"Blackwing," he decided, the name coming to him with a sudden, unexpected certainty. Shadow. The Monarch's essence. A silent, dark wing to shield him. A weapon to carry him.
The armor on his hand seemed to pulse once with a faint, deep light, acknowledging the designation. Blackwing. He felt the name settle, a new anchor in his mind.
[A poetic choice,] the clone remarked, a hint of something that might have been dry amusement in its tone. [Your evolution has just begun. Practice. Master this new synergy. You are no longer just a brute.] The shadow clone began to dissolve, its form fading back into the darkness. [Do not disappoint me further.]
And he was gone.
Kafka was left alone with his new, sentient power. He held up his hand, and Blackwing flowed and reformed, shifting from a gauntlet, to a blade, to a shield, with a speed and grace he could have never achieved on his own. He wasn't just controlling it anymore. They were dancing.
A faint crackle in his hidden earpiece snapped him back to reality. The ATU agents shadowing him. They would have noticed his collapse, the flare of energy. He needed to get out of here.
He let Blackwing dissolve and started the long walk back, his mind reeling. This power… this was a game-changer. The fear of his own chaotic abilities was gone, replaced by a nascent, terrifying confidence.
An hour later, as he was entering the "safe" perimeter of the base, his enhanced senses picked up trouble. Shouts. The smell of blood. The distinct, energetic signature of a Kaiju.
He broke into a run, following the sounds to one of the secondary hangar bays. He arrived to find a scene of chaos.
A small, escaped Yoju, one of the specimens brought back for analysis from the dead zone, was loose. It was a fast, rat-like creature, and it was terrorizing a squad of green, rookie cadets, fresh out of basic training. They were panicked, their aim wild, their formation a complete mess. One of them was on the ground, his leg bleeding from the creature's claws.
"Hold the line, you idiots!" a familiar voice roared. Kikoru Shinomiya was there, her combat suit on, but her axe was nowhere in sight—she must have been caught off-guard. She was trying to hold the creature at bay with a standard-issue plasma rifle, a weapon ill-suited to her overwhelming fighting style.
The rat-Yoju was too fast. It dodged her energy bolts and lunged, not at her, but at the wounded cadet on the ground.
There was no time for Kikoru to intercept. There was no time for Kafka to get there.
'No!' The thought was a primal scream in Kafka's mind. 'Protect him!'
He didn't even issue a conscious command. He was still fifty meters away. But the new, sentient power within him—Blackwing—responded.
His shadow on the ground stretched with unnatural speed, racing across the hangar floor, far faster than he could run. The Yoju was just about to sink its teeth into the cadet's throat when Kafka's shadow shot up, solidifying into a sharp, obsidian-black tendril.
SHLNK!
The shadow-spike impaled the Yoju clean through the head, killing it instantly. The entire event took less than a second.
The hangar fell silent. The cadets, Kikoru, everyone stared at the dead monster, skewered on a spike made of pure, solid shadow that was still connected to Kafka, who stood panting fifty meters away.
The spike dissolved back into the floor.
Kikoru spun around, her eyes wide with shock and disbelief, staring at Kafka. He hadn't just used his armor. He had commanded his own shadow like a weapon. That wasn't the power of Kaiju No. 8. She knew, with a sudden, gut-wrenching certainty, what that power was. She had seen it on the rooftop.
It was the power of Sovereign.
Kafka stared at his own hands in horror. He hadn't told Blackwing to do that. The subordinate consciousness, born of the Monarch's essence, had acted on his deepest, subconscious desire—to protect—and had used the most efficient tool available to it. A tool from its parent's arsenal.
The line he was so desperate to maintain, the one separating him from his master, was blurring. He was starting to use the Monarch's magic without even realizing it. The catch he had feared was already coming true. He looked into Kikoru's shocked, accusing eyes, and he knew she had seen it too.
He could no longer be sure where Kafka Hibino ended… and the Shadow Monarch's influence began.