The Reed mansion groaned under pressure unseen. Sparks dripped from the ceiling like molten rain, crawled along the walls, and pooled into trembling light at Zeke's feet. The air was too heavy, each breath a weight. Three figures faced him—Neo-Nephilim, Half-Blood Drakyn, and Sovereign Slime—his own subconscious carved into form by the system. Their words did not echo. They struck, carving into him as if every sound were a claw.
The Neo-Nephilim stood proud, silver hair shining faintly, wings spread like banners of dusk and dawn. His irises burned purple and gold, four arms rising in silent accusation.
"Look at yourself, Ezekiel," he said, voice like thunder. "Every scar, every wound, every desperate struggle—you call them triumphs, but they were degradation. Sovereign Crucible, Core Division—survival tricks of a crippled vessel. Clever? Perhaps. But clever like vermin, scratching in dirt. You should have soared. Instead, you crawled."
The words ripped through him like blades. Zeke's form trembled, filaments twisting inward. He had endured, yes. He had survived. But in that voice every memory turned bitter, every hard-fought moment mocked as shame.
Neo-Nephilim stepped closer, sparks scattering from his tattoos. "You feel it. The shame. You tell yourself survival is glory because it is all you have. But the truth gnaws at you—if I had not been torn away, you would never have known such weakness. Every moment of hunger, every collapse, every brush with scattering—proof of what you lost. Proof that slime was never worthy of you." His wings shook sparks loose, raining them like embers. "Choose me, and erase that shame. Reclaim what was stolen."
Zeke's lattice screamed, edges fraying. Part of him wanted to agree, to surrender. Had it all been nothing but filth and trickery? Was every moment of pain worthless without the body he had lost?
But then another voice cut in, sharp as a knife. The Drakyn stepped forward, golden eyes slitted, horns gleaming. Scales glinted on his arms and shoulders, catching the sparks like shards of armor. His smile was cruel.
"He offers you pride, but pride will damn you. Pride will make you prey."
Neo-Nephilim snarled. "Mutt—"
"Silence," the Drakyn snapped, gaze never leaving Zeke. "You whisper their names when you think no one listens. Cass. Aunt Kat. Uncle Alexi. Grandpa. Zein and Zia. You cling to them even now, terrified they were left behind. What if they are here, Ezekiel? What if they are alive, waiting for you?" His voice sharpened, each word cutting deeper. "Will Cass see kin in sludge? Will Aunt Kat open her arms to a monster? Will Uncle Alexi see a son—or draw steel? Will Zein and Zia smile—or scream?"
The names broke him. They struck harder than any insult, heavier than any shame. Zeke's form convulsed. He saw Cass's grin, Aunt Kat's steady warmth, Uncle Alexi's hand on his shoulder, Grandpa's gruff laughter, the toddler giggles of Zein and Zia. He wanted to see them again. He wanted it with an ache that tore him open. And the Drakyn's words twisted that longing into terror. What if they were here? What if they looked at him and recoiled?
The Drakyn's voice pressed harder, merciless. "Choose me, and you will belong. Choose me, and you can walk among them without shame. Choose me, and you can search, you can find them. This world is theirs as much as yours. Do not throw them away for the corpse of a dead world—or for sludge that no one will ever love."
Zeke faltered, lattice bending under the weight. Shame had gutted him. Longing was pulling him apart. And then the Slime moved.
It rose from the floor, crystalline and liquid, ever shifting. Limbs sprouted and shattered. Wings bloomed and collapsed. Its form was chaos, yet every fracture rejoined into wholeness. When it spoke, it was Zeke's voice distorted, fractured with weight.
"Family. Heritage. Lies."
The Drakyn bared his teeth. "Monster—"
"Where were they," the Slime cut over him, voice reverberating like broken glass, "when you starved? Where were they when sparks ripped you apart? Where were they when you almost scattered, begging to die?" It leaned forward, its face never one shape, its voice never one tone. "Not Cass. Not Aunt Kat. Not Uncle Alexi. Not anyone. I was there. I held you together. I devoured, I reforged, I endured. You already chose me when you chose survival."
The mansion shuddered. Portraits warped on the walls. Cass's face blurred into faceless white. Aunt Kat's eyes hollowed black. Uncle Alexi's jaw split into silence. Grandpa's frame cracked down the middle. The toddlers' portraits melted, Zein and Zia's laughter echoing through the hall, warped into static. The hearth spat ash that refused to burn. The library whispered gibberish, every book bleeding sparks.
Zeke staggered, essence unraveling. The Slime's words wrapped around him like chains of molten iron. He had been alone. He had been starving, dying, breaking. And the truth clawed through him—none of his family had been there. No one had saved him. Only the vessel he despised. Only this body. Only himself.
Neo-Nephilim roared, fury splitting the air. "Do not listen! That was desperation, not destiny. Fear makes mockeries. Only I am sovereign enough to bear you. Only I can crown your will with power unmatched. Choose me, and shame dies forever."
The Drakyn's eyes burned. "Choose him, and you will be a freak. Choose sludge, and you will be alone. Choose me, and you will belong. You will see them again. You will not walk alone into eternity."
The Slime convulsed, jagged mouths opening in laughter. "Alone? He has always been alone. And he lived. He thrived. He will thrive still. They may not even be here. They may be dust. But I am here. I will always be here. I am you."
The mansion screamed. Walls bowed outward, splitting down the middle. Sparks poured like floodwater, drowning every surface. Portraits shattered into shards of essence, glass raining from broken windows. The hearth collapsed into cinders that hissed but would not ignite. Every object Zeke had once known warped into mockery.
And Zeke stood in the middle, his lattice screaming, his essence tearing. Apex potential clawed at him from one side. Belonging and family from another. Sovereignty through survival from the third. Every voice was his own. Every promise was a temptation. Every promise was poison.
He felt himself fracturing, pulled in three directions, body unraveling under the weight of choice. His past. His kin. His sovereignty. All screaming, all demanding, all clawing for dominion.
And still, none of them yielded. The war for his future was far from over.