A lone cockroach skittered across the damp cobblestones near the abandoned fountain, its antennae twitching at the scent of ozone and decay lingering in the stagnant air. Its segmented shell reflected the dim glow filtering through cracks in the towering slum ceilings—a muted, iridescent sheen against the grime. The insect paused, sensing vibrations deeper than sound, a resonance that made the puddles tremble as if touched by invisible fingers.
Inside the fractured mental realm, Zeke's soul convulsed. The obsidian orb burned with glacial fire against his essence. It wasn't acceptance; it was assimilation. The orb's jagged glyph flared—snap—and Zeke saw. Not with eyes, but through the Chronos Eye's golden lens: intricate fractals of divine entropy unfolding like poisoned flowers. His fractured memories—Kael's knife gleaming, Luke's spear poised—weren't weapons now. They were anchors. He seized the Warrior's betrayal, using its bitter weight to ground himself as the orb's power flooded his core. Cold lightning seared his metaphysical nerves. Phantom blood boiled in veins he no longer possessed. Every nerve-ending screamed as the Devourer's essence carved new channels through his soul, rewriting his existence stitch by agonizing stitch.
Beyond the mental storm, back in the slums' stagnant air, the cockroach froze. Its antennae trembled not from vibration, but from a sudden, violent shift in the ambient Mana. Golden threads—visible only to Zeke's Divine Trace Vision—snapped taut around the fountain tomb. The crumbling stone groaned. Dust rained from its edges as reality itself seemed to buckle under the pressure of the soul-struggle within. Inside the tomb, the petrified heart fragment crumbled to ash. The journal's leather binding cracked like dry bone. Zeke's physical body, still slumped against the tomb's interior, began to bleed sluggishly from every pore, staining the dirt black.
Inside the crucible, Zeke screamed without sound. The obsidian orb dissolved into liquid shadow, pouring into the fractures of his soul like molten lead. Each memory it weaponized—Kael's laughter, Emma's poisoned wine, the crushing weight of betrayal—became a forge-hammer strike. The Chronos Eye flared gold, weaving frantic counter-patterns. He didn't resist; he redirected. Using Precognition's half-second glimpse, he saw the chaotic energy's path a fraction before it tore him apart and twisted his agony into a shield. Hatred became fuel. Vengeance became structure. The Devourer's power wasn't tamed—it was harnessed.
***
The cockroach's antennae snapped upright as the fountain tomb cracked open like an egg. Dust bloomed into the thick air, carrying the scent of ozone and petrified blood. Inside, Zeke's physical body jolted upright, gasping—not for air, but for the raw divine power still coursing through his veins. Black ichor dripped from his pores, pooling around him like cursed ink. His new golden eye blazed, casting jagged shadows across the crumbling stone as Divine Trace Vision seared the world. Every thread of Mana burned bright, but one constellation screamed louder: the remnants of the Devourer's will, coiled like a serpent in his soul.
It hissed, not in sound, but in cold, fragmented intent. Images tore through Zeke's mind: **a sky shattered by seven golden spears**, a mountain-sized god choking on his own divine blood, and the bitter taste of betrayal—so familiar it made Zeke's stolen ribs ache. The Devourer's final memory wasn't a plea. It was a command etched in lightning: "Destroy them. The Pantheon. The Throne-Stealers." Zeke clenched his fists, the obsidian glyph on his soul-palm pulsing. This wasn't inheritance. It was a pact written in vendetta. "Fine," he rasped, tasting copper and starlight. "But your vengeance walks my path first."
The cockroach fled as Zeke staggered from the tomb. Divine Trace Vision painted the slums in searing gold. Kael's signature blazed nearby—thick, arrogant threads of fire-mana coiling from the Red Hand Enforcer barracks. The Devourer's power snarled within him, a starving beast scenting prey. It tugged Zeke toward the barracks, whispering promises of "consumption". He touched the jagged scar where Kael's knife had stolen the boy's eye. The boy's terror, the Enforcer's laugh—it merged with the Devourer's fury. Fuel. Pure, volatile fuel.
Zeke moved like smoke down alleyways choked with refuse. His steps were silent, guided by Precognition's half-second whispers: a guard's yawn, a loose cobblestone, the trajectory of a thrown bottle. Each glimpse drained his minute vitality pool. At the barracks' rusted gate, he paused. Inside, torchlight flickered against grimy windows. Kael's laughter boomed—cruel, familiar. The Devourer's essence coiled tighter, its divine hunger resonating with Zeke's own. He tasted ozone and blood. "I won't wait", he thought. "This power demands payment".
He slipped through shadowed gaps. Inside, the air thickened with sweat, cheap ale, and the metallic tang of violence. Divine Trace Vision ignited Kael's position—a pulsing crimson knot in the command room. Zeke pressed against clammy stone. The Devourer's memories surged: fractured images of golden spears piercing celestial flesh, the deafening crack of divine bones. Its wrath settled like shrapnel in Zeke's chest. Rejecting this legacy would unravel his soul. Accepting it meant pledging his vengeance to a dead god's war. His fingers traced the obsidian glyph beneath his ribs—cold, alive. "Fine," he murmured. "Your enemies become mine... after mine bleed."
The corridor echoed with drunken shouts. Precognition flickered—a half-second warning of a guard rounding the corner. Zeke moved, brittle bones protesting. He flowed into a storeroom reeking of moldy grain and rusted blades. Inside, he found his conduit: a gutting knife, its handle slick with dried blood. It weighed nothing in his grip, yet the Devourer's power hummed. It recognized the blade's hunger. Divine entropy seeped into the steel, etching the fracture-glyph onto its edge. He felt the relic stir—a sliver of its fragmented consciousness clinging to Zeke's hatred. "Use me", it hissed. "Let us taste god-killer's work".
Three Enforcers stumbled past the doorway, their auras thick with cheap ale and violence. Zeke recognized them—the faces from the vessel's dying memories. The ones who'd laughed while kicking ribs. Their mana signatures flared crimson-hot in his Divine Trace Vision. He struck before Precognition faded. The knife flashed, guided by the Devourer's instinct. Not a stab—a tear .Blade met leather armor, and chaotic divinity unraveled the stitches. It bit deep, not just flesh, but the crude fire-mana swirling in their cores. A choked gasp. The man crumpled, eyes wide not in pain, but in horror as his life-force dissipated. The Devourer sighed—a ripple of cold satisfaction through Zeke's soul. The glyph on the knife pulsed brighter.
The other two whirled, fists clenched. Precognition showed Zeke their clumsy swings half a heartbeat early. He flowed under a wild punch, knife carving upward. It missed vital organs but scraped bone—and the fractured divinity in the blade bit. The Enforcer screamed as corrupted mana surged up his arm, blackening veins like poison. The third swung a cudgel. Zeke ducked, sacrificing balance. The club grazed his shoulder—phantom agony flared—but he jammed the knife low into the man's thigh. The Devourer snarled inside him, pulling. Crimson threads of mana ripped free, dissolving into entropy. The Enforcer collapsed, choking on his own unraveling power. Silence fell, broken by ragged breaths. Zeke stood over them, golden eye burning. "For the eye," he whispered. Three debts paid. But Kael's roar echoed from deeper within the barracks—a storm incoming.